The Escape
by Verboten Byacolate
Summary: AU, SuFin. Prince Tino's first contact with his white knight just happens to be a punch in the stomach. The white knight has his reasons.
1. the runner runneth

_Oh dear. _

_Oh dear, oh dear. I knew it. None of these trees look familiar. Oh my, I've never seen that pond before. I think... oh, I think I've gotten myself lost. _

Tino readjusted the golden crown atop his head and leaned, breathless, against a tree. He loved walks and took them often, but this expedition had not been one of leisure. That frightening duke Ivan from the snowy faraway had come for an impromptu visit at the castle. Tino had overheard Ivan and the King of Denmark bargaining land and... had heard a bid for himself as well. Tino knew that his king, though stingy with what he considered "his," could be swayed with a good deal (or a good fight), and Tino would not put it past Duke Ivan the Frightening to sell his own soul for additional "property." So, as the flight response was ignited within Prince Tino, he ran from the castle and into the forest he frequented. However, veered from his usual path, ducking through thicker foliage and weaving around taller trees, he had made a satisfying escape.

While running, he had formed a sloppy plan in his mind: hide out in the forest until Ivan returned to his land of snow, close enough to find his way home after a few days, but far enough not to be caught.

Alas, his current predicament rendered him hopelessly lost. While he had left shortly after breakfast, through the dense green leaves above he could make out small specks of deep purple sky. Night was falling. Every moment rendered him more and more blind. His stomach growled at him for not thinking out his plan more thoroughly, for not keeping it in mind as he fled. Tino grimaced and leaned his back against a tree, sliding down slowly. He held his hands in front of his face, squinting to make out the vague image.

His belly grumbled in complaint and he placed his hands upon it. "It's too dark to find food," he said to himself. "I will get something to eat in the morning."

Tino willed his body to rest, but it was difficult. Though he needed his energy after his day of running and walking, it was hard to find peace resting against an upright and rough tree when he had never spent a night away from his soft, warm bed in all of his years of life. The noises of the forest that had kept him company during the day turned ominous and threatening when the sun disappeared. Tino hugged himself, his eyes rolling madly behind closed lids.

He fell into a restless sleep just hours before dawn.

* * *

_Food._

It was the first thought in Tino's conscious mind as he awoke, feeling tired, hungry, and very irritable. His mood wasn't improved when he scraped his elbow on the tree as he was pushing himself to a stand, and his search for something edible had turned up fruitless for the better half of the morning.

Feeling sick and fatigued and not quite minding the idea of going home regardless of creepy guests, he crouched down in a clearing to take a rest. Lying down in the soft grass he sighed. His crown rolled from his head, but anymore he didn't care. He rolled onto his stomach and moaned. He had never been this hungry in his life. At every turn he'd ever made, there was a servant to cater to his whims. He was fed nearly every hour, pampered with cushions and velvet, never finding the need to lift a finger for even the most menial tasks. It was a wonder he wasn't fat. He had always found solace in the fresh air of the woods, but after just a day surrounded by trees, he wouldn't mind staying in the stuffy castle for an entire year without setting a foot outside.

"Where's a maid when you really need one?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, because when he woke up the air was cooler and the sky was tinged a faint orange. Tino sat up and blinked the sleep away from his eyes, scanning his surroundings. He stood, brushed the dirt off of his front and backside and strolled through a few bushes back the way he had come that morning.

When he saw it, he froze.

There.

How had he not seen it before?

A bush, peppered in bright red berries, leaves fluttering gently in the breeze, coaxing him in. His belly rumbled in encouragement, and Tino surged forward, sifting his hands through the bush so that the berries were caught while the leaves slid through the tiny opening of his fingers. He popped a handful in his mouth and chewed hastily, going for more.

But then the bitterness of the berries shot a hole through his hungry haze and his eyes widened in realization. He dropped the remaining red fruits in his hands and coughed, his arms wrapping themselves around his stomach as the bitter pain began. Tino moaned, staggering back into a tree.

He felt hot, too hot, and his vision was going on him. The innocent-looking bush blurred and faded as Tino slipped into a wretched slumber, terrified that he would never again wake to see the light of day.

* * *

Tino was not sure whether or not he was floating between life and death. He could not be certain of his surroundings at all, for his eyes would not open, and his mind was fuzzy. But he was quite sure he was dead. Bordering his line of consciousness he noted that another being was present, for he could hear footsteps. They stopped, and a moment later, a hard, hard pain surged through his stomach. It was... it was almost like he had received a blow from a fist.

He could feel himself retching.

And then, once more, dark nothingness.

* * *

tbc..

Gah. I want to continue so badly. But it is a school night, and _my _bed beckons. So I will continue tomorrow. Reviews would be absolutely amazing.  
-Bya


	2. Noise Maker, make some noise

He ached all over in the worst way, in a way a young prince should never ache. Tino was too weak to move his body. It frightened him to think that perhaps he couldn't at _all _and felt relief when his limp fingers curled. Something bunched within his fists-- something soft, gentle against tired flesh. His eyes were swollen shut (he must have had an allergic reaction to the poisonous berries, a double blow) so he focused on _not _panicking. Through the ache he realized that there was silence. All around him, as well as inside of him. Distantly, muffled, he could hear birdsong, but it was obvious that he was no longer outdoors.

Internally, there was no angry admission from his stomach. He was not hungry. Which meant that he was either dead or in someone's care, and the numb pain settled on his body more or less dissolved the former option. But who? His fingers were swollen, but he could still tell that the material between his fingers was not the silken material that adorned all the beds belonging to royalty in the castle. This was thick, warm, soft but sturdy. It was practical with the changing seasons, and had not been draped over him. Rather, he was lying on top of it.

Straining his ears, Tino listened for the sound of another person, but received no indication that there was another soul in the room. Tino wanted to open his mouth and call out, but his brain refused to supply him energy for something so frivolous. It was coaxing him instead to sleep, to regain his strength, and slowly he was succumbing.

And then came the sound. The loud, dull thwack of... of something he could not place. Knew not of. After the sudden sound, there was quiet. Tino held his breath. Again, the resounding THWACK. A short time later, again. And so continued the rhythmic, if jarring noise. If Tino's inner clock served him right, it had been going on for around an hour and he was slowly becoming used to the quick bursts of sound when they stopped all together. And for some time he waited, deciding that the sound was not a part of the wildlife because it was so sequential, almost like a very slow metronome, and no bird could ever be large enough to make such a sound.

Near to him-- maybe five feet to his left-- he heard the click of a twisting knob and the creak of a door swinging inward. Heavy footsteps sounded against wooden floorboards. They moved away from him, toward the other side of the room he was in, and after a moment Tino realized that he was holding his breath. He let out a long, low exhale.

For many minutes Tino listened as whoever had come into the room, whoever had been making those noises earlier, commenced creating even more sound-- a tame clang of metal on metal. It was almost familiar, the memory of a similar sound on the tip of his tongue...

_Oh_.

The kitchens, the King's hired cooks, the heated aroma of something delicious. This person was making food.

After hours without eating, hunger once again began poking at Tino's stomach. Whatever the noise-maker was cooking smelled good.

When Tino realized that the person was coming toward him, his muscles tensed (and protested); while this person had saved him, he could very well be the very same man he was running from in the first place.

Duke Ivan had a knack for pursuing what he desired.

When a large hand took hold of his chin, Tino's blood froze; it was Ivan, all of those hours spent alone and miserable were for naught, the duke was _too scary_ to live with and he had no choice in the matter and ah, it was so strange for Ivan to _not _utter words that dripped honey and struck terror into the hearts of those around him. Why was he so silent?

Why was he so gentle?

The hand slowly pried his jaws open without crude force, and fingers remained locked onto his face. A thumb applied pressure to his chin to keep his mouth open and four long, calloused fingers stretched, forefinger resting near his eye, pinky nestled below his earlobe. While his heart began to pound erratically, it was from the touch and not from fear. Whoever this person --man, Tino decided-- was, it was not Ivan. Ivan's hands were thick and smooth (Tino inwardly shuddered at the memory of those hands, those _awful _hands). Whoever this was had the hands of a worker, a laborer, strong and rough with years of wear and tear and poverty, getting by on what they had which almost nothing at all.

For a moment nothing happened. And then, suddenly and without warning, something warm and dry was on his lips and hot hot liquid heat filled his mouth. Tino wanted to cry out, but his throat was too dry. Something more solid invaded his open mouth and a hand that wasn't on his face tilted his head, just so, and the liquid ran down his throat with the gentle coaxing of _whatever else_ that thing was inside his mouth. And then, the thing retreated, and the warmth was removed from his lips. The next time it was back, however, Tino was ready for it.

At the invasion, the prince clamped down.

A muffled sound of pain and shock from the infiltrator sounded and Tino let go. The person (definitely a man) drew back quickly, letting Tino's head fall back onto its pillow with a soft thump.

After that there was no sound. The silence grasped Tino, and slowly anxiety crept upon him. The person was probably definitely angry now that he had been hurt and he was planning how to get rid of Tino. It would be easy because the prince was not only lightweight, but he could not move his body, and he did not know his surroundings so there was no way he could lead authorities back to this house.

That was it. Tino was going to be cast away. Or... or he was going to be killed, if the man (who had_ rescued _him, he thought guiltily) was angry enough.

Hot tears built in the corners of his eyes and it burned.

"'m s'rry," mumbled a deep, low voice to his near left. Tino thought numbly, as a thumb gently brushed away a tear that had escaped his swollen eyes, that the man must be talking like that because he'd bitten his tongue. "Didn' know y' were 'wake." Tino cleared his throat and moved his lips slowly, his jaw already aching.

"No, I'm sorry," he said softly, voice nearly a whisper.

"Don' have 'ny spoons," the man explained. "'N' y' can't eat by y'rself. 's the only way, y' gotta eat."

Tino inhaled deeply, his reply being a simple parting of lips.

The broth was warm running down his parched throat. Not rich and not dull. Just warm.

* * *

tbc..

I can honestly say that all the lack of dialogue is killing me. But I'm super happy I could get the next chapter out so soon. To those of you who reviewed for chapter one, bless you! I hope you will continue to support me through the duration of this fic.


	3. ulcer, I bid thee gone

Prepare yourselves for the most delightful chapter in all of fandom.  
-Sarcasm (c) Bya

* * *

The symptoms of Tino's allergies faded quickly enough, but the initial poisonous property of the berries carried a lasting effect. His stomach was weak, which made it hard to keep anything down that his savior (_"B'rwald"_) fed him. He felt a little guilty, but Berwald assured him in so many words that it wasn't his fault (which it was), and that he had enough for himself (which he didn't), so Tino definitely didn't need to worry himself into a tizzy (which he did).

Berwald's voice was deep and dark like the ocean, and before his swollen eyes could be opened Tino wondered what kind of person such a voice would be fitting to. Berwald didn't talk much, and not at all unless prompted by Tino. He was a man of few words with big, rough hands; the strong, silent type were normally tall.

Once Tino had opened his eyes, he had found that his prediction was correct. Though his vision was hazy and he couldn't make out fine detail, Tino could easily see the man's height easily trumped that of the King of Denmark, and even Duke Ivan the Frightening. Tino had never expected to find a man taller than the duke in all of his life. All the tall men he had ever been aqcuainted with were scary. Days passed, and when he was able to clearly see the stony face of Berwald, he knew he was no different.

Berwald was scary. Whenever he looked at Tino, he glowered, and he always looked like something was troubling him. When he cooked, he glared down at the food. When he hung laundry, Tino was surprised that a hole didn't burn through the material as it was hung to dry.

Even so....

When Berwald folded his spectacles and placed them on the ancient, worn nightstand, leaned against the wall opposite Tino's (another stab of guilt: technically, Berwald's) bed and drifted off to sleep, his brow would almost unfurrow; his eyelashes settled onto his cheeks and he breathed evenly and in those moments Tino had to admit that Berwald, while being scary beyond belief most of the time, was... handsome. He was actually very attractive with high cheek bones, hair the color of wheat, sky-blue eyes and broad shoulders. And he was so strong. Tino felt protected from the outside world when Berwald was present. Even though he felt less than at ease with Berwald himself.

But no matter what appearance conveyed, Berwald had saved him, and without Berwald he would be dead of his own stupid mistakes. As a prince, he was ignorant, but not too.

Speaking of princehood...

Was it his place to tell Berwald? What would his reaction be? As days went by, how could he keep his identity as prince concealed? He didn't think that Berwald was the type to take advantage of such a situation, but he could never be sure. Tino would make an excellent hostage for a peasant.

Yet another wave of guilt gripped him as he peeked out from under Berwald's quilt to the man slouched uncomfortably against the wall mere yards away. How could he think like that when Berwald had given him so much of what little he had?

_Because people are scary, and big men liked to be in control of little men. _

And Tino was a very little man.

* * *

For the second time that day, Tino emptied his stomach into the basin between his legs. Tears streamed from his eyes and down his cheeks. It was too late in the day to be feeling this miserable. The sun had set long ago and Berwald had to light candles to see. The tall man gently brushed the bangs from Tino's forehead and rubbed his thumb along Tino's back. His spine tingled. Berwald handed him a wooden cup full of water.

"Rinse," he rumbled, and Tino complied, spitting the acrid taste of vomit from his mouth. He drew a shaky breath. Berwald touched his hair again. Tino felt his trembling nerves begin to calm.

"I..." he cleared his throat. "Before the poison, when I was little, I was sick like this. I had the flu. It was long ago, and my nurse took care of me."

Berwald wrapped his fingers around Tino's, lifting the cup to his lips. "Sips. Little ones." Tino complied. "N't all 'f it. Y'll get sick again."

"I've been taken care of all my life. I couldn't get along without other people."

Berwald took the basin from between his legs and dumped it outside. He would wash it in the morning.

"You've never asked my name," Tino said. The older man returned to his side, gently pressing on his chest and coaxing him back into a laying position. "I know yours, but you don't know mine."

"Does 't bother you?"

Tino flushed. "W-well, no... I thought it was more convenient for people to know each others' names."

"Don' need to," Berwald said simply.

That, Tino understood. Berwald had never needed to call to him, to summon him, to acknowledge him. They lived secluded in very close quarters and Tino was bedridden. Berwald's name was really the only necessary line of communication between them, and Tino never needed it on account of his keeper's keen attentiveness. He could easily be hired as a butler at the castle, the way he kept his small household running and had enough time to keep Tino in a constant state of princely effortlessness.

The tall man sat beside Tino. "'f I know y'r name..." Berwald removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "'f I know y'r name, I'll start t' care too much."

Tino felt a common link of understanding between them now.

Berwald may not have been as mistrusting as Tino, but he was just as afraid of getting hurt.

* * *

tbc..

I SIMPLY DO NOT KNOW HOW TO INCORPORATE "Su-san" INTO THIS FIC AND IT IS KILLING ME.  
I like to listen to music as I write, and for this chapter I used Mozart. It's not exactly SuFin-ish (lol, Finnish), so does anyone know of any good SuFin bands? I've decided not to re-download the SuFin FST because my comp crashes a lot. Anything would be appreciated.


	4. of carrots, baths, and blocks of wood

I've found a way.

* * *

Days slowly passed and soon, Tino was once again able to walk. He was shaky at first, his legs wobbly like a toddler's from lack of use; sometimes he used Berwald as a brace. He learned what the sound had been on his first day of consciousness here in the hut. Berwald chopped and sold firewood for a living. Old man winter wouldn't show his face for many months, but, Berwald explained (in so many words) that wood was inexpensive at this time of year for his customers, and if they shopped in advance they would not need to fear an early winter in the months to come.

Tino often sat on the wooden steps beyond the hut's door and watched Berwald work. The older man would work for hours, setting a rhythmic pace withing the first twenty minutes, chopping log after log into thick, precise foot-long slabs. Berwald began before Tino would wake some days, hacking down one of the thin birch trees surrounding the house a little ways out. By the time he had hauled it back home, Tino was awake, had eaten the meal (normally stale bread and smoked meat) that had been prepared for him and was leaning against the door, smiling and waving to his hard-working caretaker. Berwald began in the morning, but when the noon sun was sitting high in the sky and sweat stuck his white (no, gray... no, faded blue) tunic to his body and his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose he would grunt, set his ax aside, and peel the tunic off of his torso and over his head, push his glasses back up, and took to the wood for another few hours.

It wasn't that Tino felt _flustered _watching Berwald's sinewy muscles move languidly under taut flesh when Berwald lifted the ax over his head and swung. Certainly Berwald was... nice looking, with his light hair, long legs, broad shoulders and incredible blue eyes. But Tino was more embarrassed than anything else. He had never in his life seen a person half nude go about it so unabashedly. In fact... he had never seen a person half nude _ever_. At all. It was a private thing, a person's body, so he felt compelled to look away.

But he couldn't. Berwald's physique and strength was magnetic to his eyes, and how did he not burn or turn dark under so much sunlight? It was a mystery to Tino, who had to shade himself so as to not become scalded.

Berwald did not chop wood every day. He would utilize one or two days of the week to chopping, and when he was finished he would stack the wood in an organized fashion (and refuse to let Tino help when the prince offered, chipping away at what little pride Tino had left as someone who had never been allowed to do physical labor all of his life) and await customers.

Watching Berwald's business come and go was almost as interesting as watching him work for Tino. It was interesting to see foreigners, to hear familiar dialect of his own tongue or that of the King's, to wonder just how many of these citizens were his subjects. The first interaction Tino had ever made with a customer of Berwald's was during his fourth week's stay.

The day was exceptionally cool for the middle of summer and Tino had opened the windows, allowing any stray breezes admittance to the small house. Berwald was out delivering to an elderly couple and had been gone for a few hours; Tino was at home cutting carrots for lunch. (He could only handle a knife when Berwald was out, and he was expecting a frightening dark, worried glower when his caretaker returned home.) The sound of rolling wheels against grass and stone accompanied by onesided chatter met his ears. Tino set the knife down and wiped his hands on a towel, stepping outside.

A pair of men with dark eyes and even darker hair stood with a cart, the taller one gabbing animatedly to the smaller in a foreign tongue. Tino recognized it to be from the far east. The chipper one was pulling the cart behind him, his body situated between two handles protruding from the wooden cart. Tino slung the dishtowel over his shoulder and smiled amiably.

"Good morning. How can I help you gentlemen?"

The tall one glanced his way and smiled. "Nihao! We are here to see the Swede for business, aru."

"He is out right now making a delivery... do you want to wait for him, or is it something I can help you with?"

The smaller man, features calm and a voice equally as tranquil, inclined his head politely. "Pardon me. When do you think Swede-san will return?"

Tino scratched his cheek. "Well... Berwald is awfully strong, and he said that his customers only lived a short distance away... he's been gone for about three hours... I expect he should be back soon. Within the hour."

The men conversed for a short minute (the tall one bending his tongue in ways Tino could never hope to to the smaller one who only nodded a few times) before, "I'm Wang Yao, this is Honda Kiku, and we will have the pleasure of your company for as long as it takes, aru!"

* * *

Walking down the thin path with Berwald toward the stream for bathing, Tino recalled the day. "Those Eastern gentlemen were so interesting, Berwald. Do you do business with them often?"

Berwald gave a short nod.

"Wang Yao was really talkative, and his friend was so quiet. Honda... he called you something. S... Su-eed-san? Yes... Su-eed-san. Isn't that weird? I like it. Su... Su-san. Su-eed-san... no, I like Su-san better." He smiled. "It's endearing, don't you think?"

Berwald regarded him quietly for a moment and then slowly nodded. Tino's eyes lit delightedly when he saw the stream, running into the cool water with his clothes on. He ducked his head under and wiped the sweat and grime from his face and hair before resurfacing for oxygen. Berwald watched him with interest from the bank, removing his shoes, shirt, and glasses. Tino flushed.

"B-by the way, Su-san... what's a Swede?"

* * *

* * *

Forgive me, Katya. I just had to.  
This was my first time writing Japan or China, and I can honestly say that China is one of the must deliciously fun characters I've ever had the pleasure to write, even though it was only a few sentences. Here's to hoping he was even a little in character.


	5. full moons and dirty creatures

The moon had gone through an entire cycle since Prince Tino had first fled the castle. He sat on the steps of Berwald's porch, gazing up at the equally sullen white orb. A month had passed. An interesting, eye-opening month. A month that had been thoroughly enjoyed. Yet, no matter how much he enjoyed living in the small hut with his quiet companion, he knew that he must be sought after by his court more frantically with each passing day. Tino knew very well that the King of Denmark kept strict tabs on all of the members of the Scandinavian royalty. It would not be such a threatening thought if the king did not enjoy the hunt himself. Worse, even, he was oft accompanied by his beloved battle axe. The king himself was not a terribly frightening man; tall and wolfish, perhaps, but jovial and good-natured. His gleaming blade, however, was not.

How much longer could this last? If the king did not find him first, what truly frightened him was the thought of Duke Ivan, who might take him back to his Scandinavian home or might instead choose to drag him to his great Russian empire. He had visited once to that cold, cold place, and he certainly never wished to return. Tino felt a shudder wrack his body at the mere memory.

"Y' cold?"

Tino turned as a heavy warmth enveloped his shoulders. Berwald's arms wrapped the blanket snugly around Tino and coiled over his shoulders. The prince's heart quivered and began to beat a bit quicker. From fright, of course, since Berwald was still quite scary and big. A high-pitched squeak slipped past his lips as Berwald tucked Tino's head under his chin and situated his long legs around the prince's smaller body. Tino felt his hips encased by Berwald's thighs and blushed-- he certainly wasn't used to being touched like this. The king was affectionate in a more man-to-man way, and often clapped fellow gentlemen on the shoulder (with the exception of the cold Prince of Norway, who he seemed to favor at times with treats and brief touches). Duke Ivan was... well, he smiled a lot, and he didn't seem to find anything wrong with tossing a person over his shoulder. Eduard, Tino's closest friend and a scholarly viscount of Estonia, would ruffle his hair and drape a casual arm over his shoulder at times, but never like Berwald.

Tino wondered if it was common among peasants to be so touchy-feely. If that were so, this should be normal. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if monarchy wouldn't be so snootish and foul-tempered if monarchs were as affectionate as Berwald.

"Su-san?" Tino said, attempting to ignore the funny feeling in his chest when Berwald's acknowledging grunt rumbled through his body. "I think I'm all better now. I've imposed for a month in your house. I want to apologize."

Tino shifted and felt the solid arms around his shoulders tighten. "Y' aren't imposin'."

"Ah." Tino felt his cheeks begin to heat. "I also want to thank you."

"Couldn't leave ya. Anyone woulda done th' same."

"That may be true," Tino said, quite unsure, but would take his word for it, "but you offered your home, your food, and your clothes to me, even though it seems like you barely have enough for yourself."

Berwald made a noise as if to say, _Tha's silly. I don't eat much._

Tino chuckled in return. _You're the silly one. No one your size "doesn't eat much."_

They sat for a long moment in a comfortable silence before, surprisingly, Berwald broke it. "So... y' plannin' t' leave?"

The prince fisted the blanket with his hands. The tone in Berwald's voice did another unfamiliar thing with his heart. He didn't like this feeling, though. It was a short lurch, lonely. Tino touched Berwald's arm. "Oh, Su-san." How should he explain it? There was no way it would be a good idea to tell him that he was a member of Scandinavian monarchy. He didn't want Berwald to act differently around him. He treated Tino like a fine porcelain trinket as it were-- what would become of his feelings if he knew that Tino was the icon of an entire nation? Or... what if he got mad that Tino had lied to him for an entire month? The smaller blond definitely didn't like that idea. He had just gotten used to a scary-looking serene Berwald.

"My family," he began slowly, carefully, "will come looking for me. They can be a bit scary, and if they find me... depending on _who _finds me... well, some of them jump to conclusions, Su-san, and they don't really fear any consequences for what they do. I don't want you to get hurt." Returning home really would be the best option. Ivan surely would have gone home by now, and Tino could fabricate a tale of a sudden whim to take a trip to somewhere far away. The king understood whims. He could tell the court it was business. How he would find his way back was his immediate dilemma.

"Don't worry 'bout me," Berwald said. Tino's throat closed at the tender sound. "Go if y' need to, but y' could ne'er impose on me. Always welcome."

Tino wanted nothing more at that moment than to wrap his arms around his caretaker and promise to live with him until the day that he died. The practicality that had been schooled into him from an early age forced him to keep his eyes on the sky and his lips sewed shut.

* * *

One of the many oddly endearing things about Berwald was his strange attachment to doing the laundry. He went about the chore once a week (the bedding every other week), taking the clothes and bed-things down to the creek long before Tino would wake to wash. When the prince finally opened his eyes to a new day and dressed, he found the young man out in the lawn with bundles of wet cloth in his hands replacing the axe. Watching such a solemn-faced, well-built man with clothespins between his teeth draping off-white pillowcases over a clothesline was terribly amusing (and, if he was being honest with himself, pretty cute).

Tino found himself waking earlier than usual one particular morning, for once being jarred into waking by the quiet _click _of the door. He forced himself to stay awake, avoiding the much more tempting option of falling right back to sleep. With sleepy hands to dress himself, it took a few moments longer than anticipated to dress, and by the time he was out the door the sky had turned the lovely murky cerulean color of pre-dawn. He made his way toward the path that led to the creek when a small noise stopped him. Tino cocked his head toward the direction the squeaky, yipping sound. It came to him again, twice from around the back of the cottage-esque house, and Tino went to investigate.

"Oh gosh!"

A tiny ball of dirty brown lapped at the small puddle of water below Berwald's drain pipe. It lifted its head as the prince neared and watched him. Its tiny pink tongue licked at its itsy-bitsy wet black nose. Tino crouched down near the creature, smiling widely. "Here, poochy." He patted the ground before him. Tilting its head to the side, the dog considered the proposition for a moment before padding its way in Tino's direction. Once near, the man scooped it-- ah, _her_-- up into his arms. She seemed fairly compliant, not struggling in the least.

"Wow, you're filthy!" he laughed, scratching the dirty dog behind the ears. "We'd better go clean you up."

The dog offered a tiny bark in reply, and Tino knew from the sweet sound of her voice that it was love.


	6. in which we name the dog and take a walk

To those of you who called to my attention some rather mortifying mistakes, danke! The edits have been made.

* * *

"Y' foun' a dog?"

Tino smiled brightly and raised his arms, holding the creature out toward Berwald. "Isn't she adorable?"

The taller of the two regarded her from his position crouched on the pebbles of the creek's lip. "Dirty," he observed. A tiny brown tail wiggled in response. Berwald's facial muscles relaxed into some semblance of a smile and he dropped the sopping white shirt in his hands into the large wicker basked beside him and held out an upward-turned palm to Tino. "I'll wash."

The prince placed his new-found bundle in the capable hands of Berwald, who then proceeded to dip the puppy bum-first into trickling creek water.

"Let's name her," Tino suggested enthusiastically.

With his grip on the scruff of her neck, Berwald ran his fingers through the dog's fur, sufficiently sifting the dirt and grime from her white coat. He glanced up at Tino for a second, pale eyes glinting beneath thick spectacles. "Gonna keep 'er?"

Tino flushed. "I-is that okay?"

Berwald didn't answer, but instead rubbed a small handful of soap flakes through her soaked fluff. "Name?"

The prince shuffled closer, kneeling on his hands and knees beside Berwald. The pebbles on the creek bed were smooth, and cool water licked at his fingertips in passing. His head tilted marginally to the right in thought as he watched Berwald rinse the puppy. A thought popped into his head and he smiled. "What about _Go For It, Bomber_?" Tino didn't seem to notice that Berwald's hands paused. "Or maybe _Bloody Hanatamago_ or _Cheese Castle_ or--"

"Think Hanatamago's fine," Berwald quickly cut in. Tino smiled brightly.

"You do? Moi, I'm glad!" He reached out a hand and ruffled the wet fuzz atop the canine's head. "Bloody Hanatamago."

Berwald coughed, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Jus' Hanatamago's good."

* * *

Tino was supposed to be asleep. Berwald expected him to be sleeping, so it was no wonder that he did embarrassing things only very late at night or very early in the morning. It probably wasn't very often that he did those kinds of things, though, because Berwald was a very efficient person—he worked hard in the day, and when he felt himself begin to run low on energy after the sun set, he would make sure Tino was comfortable before he himself tucked himself away in a corner and slept against the wall.

But sometimes he would shuffle around the cottage sleeplessly and accidentally bump against a chair or set a mug down too roughly, and he would turn, quick-as-lightning toward the bed to make sure Tino had not awoken (and he always had, since he was a light sleeper, but he was also excellent at pretending that he was asleep), and then through relaxed, barely-open eyelids under camouflage of long lashes watched him with a never-ending curiosity.

Because some nights, when Berwald was awake and thought that Tino couldn't see, he would take a small jar out from the cabinet beneath the wash basin, quietly pull out a chair, and take off his clothes. The first time he had witnessed this occurrence, Tino was frozen in shock. He had seen Berwald's body plenty of times before when bathing, but in the dark cottage with orange candlelight pouring over his naked shoulders and running its warmth through his pale hair, creating hollows in his spectacle-less eyes, he seemed so terribly open and vulnerable that the prince was nearly loathe to continue to watch.

It made Tino feel incredibly intrusive, and he almost looked away, but then Berwald's hand would catch his eye. Those long fingers trailed slowly downward in a line on his abdomen below his chest. Tino's cheeks flushed as Berwald's thumb brushed over that flat stomach, those stony abs, and ended the track at his upper left thigh. It began to grow uncomfortably hot under the covers.

Then a noise escaped Berwald's throat and Tino's mesmerized gaze jolted to his face. The drunkenness Berwald's hands had caused in the prince sobered considerably at the expression on that candlelit face.

His brows were knit in a portrayal of deep discomfort, his mouth set in a pale, grim line. The shadows cast on his facial contours, once enchanting, now allowed naught but a terrifying contortion of hate.

Hate? Tino suppressed a shudder at the tight expression and recoiled from Berwald. Berwald, his savior. His provider. His friend.

No, the shape of his face was not hatred. It was pain.

When he stood again to put his clothes back on, if Tino strained his eyes he could see a red line, dark against pale skin, shining faintly beneath the ointment's sheen. Berwald returned the jar to the cabinet, snuffed out the candles, and curled up in his corner to sleep. Tino's eyes stayed alive for the rest of the night beneath their lids.

The next evening as they bathed, for the first time, Tino noticed a pale white scar running just below Berwald's chest to beneath the waistline of his cotton trousers.

* * *

Keeping up with Berwald's long stride was proving to be difficult for the young prince, but determination kept him strong. The Swede seemed to notice and slowed a bit. "Y' can sit 'n th' cart-- it'll be awhile."

When the two Asian gentlemen had payed Berwald an early morning visit, Tino's curiosity had been piqued. When they left their large wooden cart in the grass before the cottage, he knew that either they were dealing with two very forgetful gentlemen, or a large haul of wood was about to be transported over an unspecified distance: Tino wanted in on the journey. And who was Berwald to deny him of his desires?

So they loaded the car with bundles upon bundles of logs, five logs per bundle tied snugly with twine and packed in neat rows. The process of tying and packing continued until the sun was high in the noonday sky. Even though he did his best, Tino could not keep up with Berwald's methodical, swift pace and perhaps had accomplished only half of what the other had. His pride was further wounded by the stony concentration on Berwald's face and the distinct lack of perspiration, that of which lay in a heavy sheen over Tino's brow, back, and chest. Berwald didn't say anything, but the prince could feel a worried gaze on his back when he wasn't looking.

A light flush, completely unrelated to exertion, lit up his cheeks in appreciation; it would have shamed him to have been asked to rest while Berwald continued the labor.

"Almos' finished," the bespectacled Swede had announced, and Tino couldn't help but feel relieved (and a little fatigued).

Now, though, it was no different; the moment they had finished packing the cart, Berwald only allowed a moment for Tino to sate his noisy belly, and then they were off through the woods. If it took much longer, he was considering taking Berwald's prior suggestion.

Even thinking so, one glance at his companion easily changed his mind. Berwald had finally begun to perspire within the first hour of hauling the heavy cart along the dirt path, reminding Tino that despite his insane amount of stamina and strength, he was still human and carrying the burden that he did had made him so big and strong. If Tino wanted to become stronger, he could endure the walk with Berwald at the very least.

The giant did not ask him again, and they carried on in a companionable silence. Tino felt almost dazed when, quite suddenly, the road widened and the trees thinned out, buildings sprouted from the ground and there was a sudden, jolting bustle of life just beyond. Tino's eyes widened, darting every which way. The town was not large, but it was lively, and it seemed that not a soul remained indoors. Small street vendors offering fruit, fresh bread, metalworking assistance, lodgings, and a minuscule plethora of other enticing services presented themselves warmly, and the vast majority of blonde-haired, blue-eyed patrons therein lifted their eyes as Berwald's cart passed. The prince kept himself close to Berwald's side so as not to run into the villagers, who parted at their fellow Swede's passing. They kept a respectful distance, but Tino also noticed quite a few smiles sent his -Berwald's- direction. Tino blinked. Many large, bearish men called out to Berwald, a few leaving their little stands and shops to their wives to lope alongside the cart and clapping enormous hands onto Berwald's shoulder's; they nearly drove Tino into the ground when the friendly gesture was transferred to him.

With growling words that Tino still did not yet understand, Berwald mumbled his way into a conversation with a few of the following tall, handsome men. This came as a bit of a surprise to the monarch, who had perhaps only witnessed his friend begin a conversation perhaps once or twice since they'd met. His eyes grew ever wider upon seeing the small cluster of blondes burst into raucous laughter at something Berwald had uttered, and a small smile of its own flitting across Berwald's face. Tino himself could not help but smile at that, and after a moment he seemed to finally catch the attention of the followers.

As they approached what appeared to be the town square, Tino glanced over at his companion. Earlier, he had explained that the wood was his small contribution to the town that he made a few times a year, but he hadn't said much else on the matter, so Tino assumed that it was just something woodsy Swedes did.

Berwald's feet finally ended their journey in front of a building, squat but slightly larger than those surrounding, with a sign that read _DOKTOR: Läkarundersökning_ on a sign nailed to the door. His brow furrowed as he tried his best to translate, but only the first part of the second word was in the vicinity of familiarity. If it were, in fact, a medical facility, he would pride himself on a job well done. The other men had quickly begun unpacking the cart in an unspoken way that boasted a casualty that made Tino fumble to fall in stride. He felt small and silly among the taller, stronger men, and tried not to let it show. Once, however, he did stumble over a rut in the walkway between the cart and a spacious shed built into the side of the building, and he bumped rather heavily into the oldest of the group, Sven, (who also appeared to be the sturdiest, as he was not jarred an inch at the weight of a small Finn and five not so small logs jostling into his spine), and the wood slipped, crashing to the ground in an embarrassing display of clumsiness on Tino's part. He quickly glanced around, and to his mortification, at least five pairs of amused blue eyes were upon him. He swiftly apologized and knelt on the stony ground, struggling to get the scattered bundle back into his arms. He was awed and humbled at the way the older gentleman had easily tucked his own logs into one arm and bent over, assisting the prince with the other as though the mutilated tree was made of feathers and _not_ heavy wood. The Finn blushed and felt embarrassed tears prick the corners of his eyes in response to the good-natured smile nestled deep within Sven's thick golden beard.

Only a moment later did he find another rugged Swede by his side, this one far more familiar and far less amused, asking shortly if he was all right. Tino smiled up at him and answered that other than feeling humiliated, he was fine. Berwald didn't look like he wanted to take that as an answer, and after helping Tino into the shed and piling the burden onto a rapidly-growing stack of even wood, he gave him a twice-over, just to make sure.

In the dusty, darkish room, Tino wondered how well Berwald could really see him, but squinting ferociously through his glasses, he seemed to do just fine. A couple younger-looking blondes walked in with armfuls of lumber glanced their way and smirked. "Tar du väl hand om din brud, Lejon?" they laughed, and Tino could just barely make out a tiny reddish flush blossoming on Berwald's cheeks. He grunted in reply and nodded to Tino as if granting his permission to continue the labor, which the confused monarch hustled to do.

With the help of half a dozen men, all sharing Berwald's stamina and strength, unpacking took no time at all, and Tino was brushing remnants of the work from the front of his tunic. The afternoon sun had begun its decent into the rooftops yonder and the prince glanced at Berwald. The sight-impaired Swede stood facing his helpers, who leaned against the sturdy cart and chortled amongst themselves. Tino waited for a small break in the conversation before he touched Berwald's arm to catch his attention. "It'll be dark soon," he said. Berwald silently looked into his eyes and nodded. Tino knew that he must have arrangements and did not press the issue further.

* * *

He was correct in his assumption. Eventually, the men grew restless and helped Berwald store the cart away in a tightly-fitted space between the medical facility and its neighbor. They then proceeded to coerce him (Berwald translated this much in order to seek Tino's opinion) to spend an evening at the tavern, and Berwald explained that the inn was just across the street, so with a hesitant smile Tino gave his consent. He had never visited a tavern before, but he knew that the King of Denmark was awfully fond of them, and if they were full of the kind of people like the King, he was a little nervous. Tino really was quite exhausted, but he knew that he could make it for at least another few hours. Maybe.

Unsurprisingly, it was packed and loud, and his nose was assaulted with a fine mixture of cedar, liquor and sweat. Tino winced as a burly middle-aged Swede knocked past him and fell against Berwald, who caught him as easily as he had been thrown over. The prince righted himself, but kept his fingers curled around Berwald's sleeve out of wariness. He looked about ready to confront the rude man, but Tino's grip stopped him. "D'you want t' leave?" he asked, leaning over close to Tino's ear so that he could better be heard. Tino shook his head. "Your friends wanted you to come, so you should talk with them."

When an enthusiastically-swung pint was sloshed over his head, though, Berwald had had enough. "We're goin'," he announced, and the words were uttered with such finality that Tino didn't even have the heart to muster a fake "_don't worry about it_." He simply stood and allowed Berwald to place a hand over the sopping small of his back and lead him from the bar. The crisp night air outside was heavenly, but Tino shivered and his companion gently guided him to the inn across the now-empty street. This building was an exquisite contrast to the tavern, warm and inviting, the couple at the front desk smiling at them both. The man, who was perhaps the first dark-haired Western gentleman he'd seen in weeks, stood and greeted them, his movement and form full of the elegance of an aristocrat, and Tino could not help but wonder if he was a European duke. He had deep violet eyes and a beauty mark below his cheek, spectacles perched on his angular nose and pristine white cravat folding daintily into his coat.

"Good evening," he said smoothly. Tino smiled at the refreshing politeness. A shorter, very pretty woman in a green dress appeared at his side and smiled warmly. "Welcome! How long will you be staying with us, sirs?"

* * *

To apologize for the long wait, I've written nearly triple the amount I usually do for The Escape in this chapter, and you can expect the next one up very soon. Thank you for your patience and understanding.  
_Är du tar väl hand om din brud, Lejon?_ Basically, "Are you taking proper care of your bride, Lion?" I welcome your mad editing skillz.  
And what of Hanatamago? Why, she was left at home, of course! Who wants to take that dead weight on a journey?


	7. baths and backstories

As Berwald made the payment with the gentleman in the lobby, the lady -who had introduced herself and her husband as Elizaveta and Roderich, who had most certainly not lived in Scandinavia for any more than half of a decade- led him up a staircase to a short, narrow hallway painted a calm pastel green and showed him to one of the two rooms on the left side of the way. It was a cozy room, light blue, with one large bed, a small side-table adorned with a tiny bouquet of bluebells in a vase, a window directly across from the door overlooking a prelude to the forest and the waning moon, and two white shuttered doors that he assumed led to either a washroom or a closet. Elizaveta fussed over his soaked tunic and somehow convinced him to strip right there for her so she could take it to wash. "I'll bring you something else to wear," she chirped, and shut the door behind her as she went. Tino glanced around, peeking behind the shuttered doors to find a bathtub (which seemed Heaven-sent to a monarch that hadn't bathed in anything but cold stream water for over a month), a wash basin, and a water closet, and was thoroughly pleased.

"I'll draw you a bath." Tino heard the door click shut and stepped into the room to find a grinning Hungarian with an armful of fresh clothes. Tino smiled in thanks and took the clothes and she stepped past him, rolling up her sleeves and turning a faucet at the foot of the tub, and water began gushing out into the large basin.

"So." She straightened and turned to him, a wide smile on her lips and a mischievous sparkle in her eye. "How on _earth_ did you do it?"

"Moi?" Tino blinked. "I'm sorry?"

She made a noise at the back of her throat and brushed past him, seating herself on the bed and smiling up almost cheekily. "How did you tame the lion?"

Tino was now thoroughly befuddled, if his furrowed brow was any indication. "I don't understand."

Elizaveta nodded and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees with her eyebrows up high, like a father about to give his son a fine piece of conspiratorial information. Tino even ended up leaning in himself, caught up in her expression. "Do you know of Oxenstierna, the Great Lion of Sweden?" Tino's own eyes widened marginally at the spark in the depths of her olive orbs, and he shook his head no. "Well, you walked into my humble little inn with him not ten minutes ago, so I certainly _hope_ you do."

In a tone that suggested that not only had she told this story before but to her it never grew old, she began the tale of a young soldier who had literally been born in the middle of a war, in a camp on the battlefield, and had been weaned on a rifle, not so much raised by his comrades as he was taught by them, losing his friends even quicker than he had made them. As he'd grown out of a not-so-tender adolescence, the boy had shown great promise as not only a warrior, but as a tactician as well, and before he could even technically be called a man, he was leading tiny covert militias and terminating the threats closer to a home he had never known. Even though he had always been a competitive boy, he had never flaunted his victories. Be that as it may, he still caught the attention of several higher-ups who grew increasingly interested in the little soldier boy. Unfortunately for him, he was quickly earning himself a name among the enemy as well. By age eighteen, he was taken under a general's wing, and he himself was making his way through the ranks like no other before him had even dreamed. At the opposite end of the barrel, his enemies gossiped like hens about the empty-eyed lion on Sweden's side whose aim was the only thing better than his record. "It's said that if a bullet was shot from his rifle, it would pierce human flesh without fail," Elizaveta murmured, "even if he was aiming for a cloud in the sky."

Tino didn't realize that, long ago he had begun hugging the small bundle of clothing tightly to his chest, remembering the long scar that trailed down Berwald's body. "So what happened?" he asked, hushed. Elizaveta opened her mouth to answer, but a brisk knock at the door cut her off. Tino thought he saw a childish pout cross Elizaveta's face before she stood to open the door. "Come in, dear, make yourself comfortable," she said, speaking over her husband's head to Berwald's hulking form behind him. Once he had come in and she had gone out, Elizaveta bade them both a good night and closed the door, rendering the room silent once more. Tino stood for a moment, dazed before remembering the running water in the bathroom. He jumped and dashed in, quickly turning off the faucet and fretting over the water that had risen all the way to the top. He sighed, tugging the drain loose so that the water level would lower, and glanced over his shoulder. Berwald say on the edge of the large bed, taking off his boots and stockings, shoulders just inches lower than usual portraying a terribly obvious tiredness. Tino's expression softened and he straightened his body, holding the clothes to his chest.

"Um... Su-san..."

Berwald peered up at him over his glasses. "Nn?"

Tino pointed to the bathroom. "You can have the first bath."

The Swede blinked. "But y're tired."

"Well, so are you."

"'m fine."

Tino felt a bit of a huff escape from his mouth. He folded his arms around the clothes and mustered a stern frown. "Su-san."

Berwald watched him for a moment. After a while, Tino felt a little silly and was about to falter when Berwald's head dropped a bit and he thought he saw a smile. "All right. If m'wife says so." He stood and moved to the bathroom, shutting the doors behind him, leaving Tino to stand rooted to the spot, gaping like a fish.

"Your _what_?"

* * *

Once he had scrubbed himself to a fantastic, much-appreciated squeaky-clean state, Tino left the bathroom adorned in fresh clothes and a very pleased smile. The white tunic Elizaveta had provided him was much too large, as were the matching sleep trousers (which most certainly would have been a better fit for Berwald), and because of the size he simply decided to shuck the pants... which would have fallen off of him anyway. Plus, the length of the tunic was enough to act as a sort of nightgown. A short gown, mind, but a gown nonetheless. It reached past his thighs if he stood up straight, at least.

His feet padded against the hardwood floor to the large bed, where he crawled in, glancing at Berwald on the other side to see him dozing above the thick quilts, propped up against the headboard.

Tino smiled at the sight, laughing quietly to himself as he realized that the Swede had forgotten to remove his glasses before drifting off. He crept over the sheets and sat up on his knees, reaching out to slip them off. His fingers brushed against Berwald's cheeks accidentally and behind his lenses the giant's eyelashes trembled. Gently, Tino slid the spectacles from his long nose. He leaned over Berwald, stretching his body out to reach his side table. He couldn't reach it without crawling over his companion, and… it would be embarrassing if Berwald woke up. So after a moment of futile stretching, the prince flopped back onto his side of the bed and laid the glasses beside the vase of bluebells. With one last glance toward the sleeping Berwald, Tino smiled and blew out the candle.

* * *

The deep blue of dawn had barely begun to seep through white linen curtains when Tino was roused. He wasn't sure exactly what had jolted his body into waking, but once he opened his eyes, he had a pretty good idea.

"Ohyaaa!"

A darkened, unhappy-looking face hovered right over his, striking a fast-pounding terror into his heart. Shadowed cerulean eyes squinted at him ever closer.

"S'rry t' wake y'," he growled. Tino grasped at the tunic above his heart, willing the rapid palpitations to calm. Berwald's arms held himself up, veins taut like bowstrings on either side of Tino's shoulders. His eyes were in fear-striking slits and their noses were perhaps a mere inch apart. Had it always been so hot in the room? Tino was burning up. "Seen m' glasses?"

The prince swallowed. Berwald's face seemed to say that his very life may depend on his answer. But after a moment, he realized that he knew better. It wasn't a glare (probably); Berwald just couldn't see very well. His mind reasoned this, and inside he felt fine with it, but the Swede's proximity was causing his body to react oddly. He opened his mouth but could not speak. His brain told his hands to take the specs from his bedside table, but instead they shakily grasped at Berwald's shoulders. His legs tensed and shifted, trapped between the other's knees. His ears felt hot, and his eyes were transfixed on the eyes, nose, lips of Berwald. Gosh, he was awfully close.

"Wha's wrong?"

"I'm totally fine!" Tino quickly replied. Or, rather, that was the exclamation that had formed in his mind. In truth, what exited his mouth sounded more like, "Hyaa..."

And then a big (big, really really big) hand on his forehead, and Tino thought he would die from the overwhelming heat and his heartrate was back up, and he knew he had to be sick. Berwald's brows scrunched together, and the prince's fear skyrocketed. "Y'r warm. D'ya feel all right?"

Tino bit his lip and shook his head from side to side. This was definitely a sickness. Berwald brushed away his wheat-colored bangs and pressed his forehead to Tino's, and the prince's stomach erupted in butterflies.

"S-Su-san," he whined, clenching the dark tunic in his fist. Berwald grunted, and then all of the sudden, his hand was being pried away, and all of the intoxicating presence was gone. The woodsman went to the washroom, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and Tino put both of his hands to his cheeks, not at all surprised at the heat he felt beneath his palms.

_What was that?!_

The giant returned with a cloth, cool and damp against his forehead when laid there with large hands. Tino looked up at Berwald's scary, squinting face and felt a few of the butterflies touch down on his heart. He drew his eyes away and reached out to the nightstand. "Here. You forgot to take them off last night."

Berwald's facial muscles relaxed and he carefully encircled Tino's outreached hand in his. "Thanks."

The prince quickly burrowed himself under the blanket and squeezed his eyes shut tight. He hoped that whatever he had caught wasn't serious-- it probably wasn't good for his heart to jolt randomly like that whenever Berwald touched him. His own face slowly took on an expression of confusion.

What a... weird illness.

Wide slates of lavender traveled to the washroom, where Berwald had once again retreated. The gentle sound of running water soothed him and he began to feel the drowsiness that came with going to bed late and waking early. Tino yawned and rolled over, snuggling down into the quilt. He would probably feel better after some sleep.

The subtle scent of the cottage in the woods lingered on Berwald's side of the bed. Tino felt his lips curve into a light smile as the dark blanket of sleep cottoned his being.


	8. nobody expects the Hungarian inquisition

It didn't go away. Tino awoke for the second time perhaps an hour later to the subtle scent of nearly-forgotten coffee and bacon. His senses piques, and he sleepily opened his eyes.

And froze.

In front of the window stood a pale, gentle giant outlined in golden sunlight, nude from the waist up. Tino's heart rate spiked and the rush of blood ran straight to his face. A tiny noise erupted in the back of his throat, a pathetic whine-whimper hybrid, that immediately caught Berwald's attention. He seemed to forget about the dark shirt in his grip and neared the bed, casting a shadow over Tino's form.

"Y'all right?" he mumbled, resting his palms on the mattress. Tino watched him through large, unsure slates of lilac.

"I think I'm sick," he confessed, feeling very hot under Berwald's intense expression. Berwald knit his brow and pushed Tino's bangs aside, pressing the back of his hand to the other's forehead for the second time that morning. And, as if his body was playing the de ja vue game, Tino's belly erupted in butterflies. The prince curled in on himself.

"How d'you feel?" Berwald rumbled, causing the smaller to shiver.

"Hot," he replied quietly, focused completely on the Swede's hand-on-face contact. The winged insects danced in his stomach and he gazed at Berwald with glassy, pleading eyes. "It... feels weird, Su-san..." Surely, he thought, Berwald could make it better somehow.

After he spoke, however, quite suddenly a shadow passed over Berwald's face, and he quickly removed his hand. The butterflies stilled at the loss of contact, which confused the boy tremendously. His befuddled state was not remedied when Berwald threw on the deep blue shirt and practically flew from the room, mumbling as he went, leaving the prince more wide-eyed and uncertain than ever.

Within moments, a soft knock sounded at the door, and the prince's symptoms had all but vanished. He crawled out of bed and crossed the distance to the door. Elizaveta greeted him from the opposite side with a concerned expression and a tray of steaming dishes.

"Good morning, dear," she said when he invited her in. "How are you feeling?"

Even though a similar question had been asked of him just minutes earlier, his answer now was completely different.

""I feel fine now," he replied as she placed the tray on the table beside the bluebells. The scent of hot porridge and coffee drastically overpowered that of the subtle toast and jam, and reminded Tino that he hadn't filed his belly in well over twelve hours. He helped himself at the Hungarian's offer, sitting on the edge of the bed as she looked him over.

"Well, you certainly _look _fine," she conceded after a moment. "I was worried. The way Mr. Oxenstierna acted, I thought this might be your deathbed." Elizaveta walked to the washroom and reached up into a cupboard above the mirror, returning with a pair of pastel blue cotton trousers. She gave him a wink and a grin. "I don't mind, but you might."

Tino looked down and jolted, blushing furiously upon remembering that he was still pantless. Dutifully turning to allow him his privacy, Elizaveta's voice pierced his awkward embarrassment.

"You aren't from around here."

Tino's right foot slipped numbly through the left trouser leg.

"H-huh?"

Elizaveta's delicate fingers linked behind her back. "Your accent, dear. It's obvious; you're Finnish."

Tino replaced his right leg with his left and laughed, a little nervous, a little relieved. "You got me. I'm from Finland."

"You're not just any old Finn, though, are you?"

He spent a few agonizing seconds wondering what to say. "Wh...what makes you say that?"

The heels of her boots clicked across the floor as she made her way to the wall, straightening a supposedly crooked painting beside the door.

"Of course I have no way to be sure," he felt his tense nerves relax marginally, "but," and she turned back around to look at him, folding her hands over her apron, "you seem awfully nervous for someone with nothing to hide."

Tino was scared. Despite the fact that he wasn't some sort of criminal in hiding, the thought that perhaps he was under the roof of one of Ivan's playthings made the cozy room claustrophobic. He swallowed and attempted to compose himself. "Why does it matter?"

Quick as lightning, the Hungarian's face split into a wide grin and she was on him in a second. His befuddled brain barely registered the fact that his hands were clasped within her own and that her pretty face was mere inches from his. Her olive-speckled eyes glinted with poorly-contained excitement.

"You're important, aren't you? Your complexion is flawless, your hands are so soft, you have that air of naïveté about you that just comes naturally with sheltered boys." She sighed dreamily, and if possible, Tino was more confused and frightened than before. Though now he was fairly certain that Elizaveta's agenda had nothing to do with Ivan. Or he hoped. It would be like taking the duke to a creepy new level.

"I, um..."

She squeezed his hands and smiled warmly. "Oh, you don't have to tell me anything, it's a woman's intuition, but it's just so _romantic_!"

"Moi?"

"A runaway monarch and his peasant lover hidden deep in the forest, consummating their forbidden love..." She punctuated the exclamation with a deep sigh, seeming to melt. "It's beautiful. You have my full support."

Tino was sure the confusion could not be more evident on his face.

"I... I don't understand," he voiced weakly. "Lovers? Consummating?"

Elizaveta cocked her head to the side.

"You and the Lion, of course."

Before Tino's frazzled brain could form a coherent thought at that, a polite knock filled the silence and the upright-looking brunette popped his head in. "Elizaveta," he admonished gently, "let him rest."

"Oh, I think he'll be fine," she replied, winking sideways at the prince and releasing his hands. The lady practically skipped to her husband, chattering amicably about the weather and Roderich inclined his head politely before the door clicked shut.

Tino stared at his hands dazedly before flopping back onto the mattress with a groan.

He shouldn't have woken up.

* * *

I had wanted to wait for the big 100 to appear on my review link before posting this chapter, but alas, my sadism falters in comparison to my impatience. (I love how ff.n spellcheck hates the word "pantless.") But oh ho, I've reverted back to my 1,000+ word status. That's what you non-reviewing crackers get for doing what you do best. To all the rest of you... there are no words to express my gratitude and adoration. My iTouch, Kensington, really doesn't like ff.n's review replying machine sometimes, so I'm sorry if it takes forever/never for me to respond. Truly.  
To WhiteFrost and Dairy, you silly anonymous gooses, much love. You're fantastic, and AUs totally rock as long as they don't suck. 8D  
And to end this biznaz, any screwy Swedish is TOTALLY the iSpeak SV app's fault. But I wouldn't worry too much about it if I were you. I try not to put non-English phrases randomly in my stuff unless I deem it necessary (or hella funny).  
OH YEAH GAIZ PS: Neeext chapter will have some dericious bits, so look forward to that. ;)  
-Bya


	9. legend learned

--or, "The Backstory Crap that No One is Really Interested in but Please Bear With Me Regardless." That doesn't sound too appealing, though.  
Warning: The following includes extreme rape of history. It's because of people like me that Wikipedia isn't considered a reliable source. No research was conducted by the author for the making of this fic.  
(But wouldn't it be so cool if by some mad coincidence, this is actually how crap went down? Because I think so.)

* * *

The Finnish prince slept, and as he slept he dreamt, and in that dream he stood in the vast lawn of his castle home. He was alone, and the world was silent. But he did not move from his spot, gazing out into the sea of trees a short distance before him. In the dream, he was not terribly surprised to see the beast appear at his side, and without hesitation he lifted his leg over the large animal's side and straddled its back, curling his fingers deep within the lion's mane.

It ran, taking him far away from his castle into the deep, dark forest. Sooner, or perhaps later, they reached the small cottage in the blur of tall trunks and deep greens, and once inside the beast tossed him onto the bed, which was not really a bed at all, but rather a very large bowl of porridge. The dish billowed steam in thick clouds, as the porridge was terribly hot. Even though he himself wasn't scorched by the mushy substance, the princely garments melted from his body, baring him completely to the lion's hot gaze.

And then the beast was upon him, cleaning the porridge from Tino's face and throat and it wasn't a lion, it was Berwald. Berwald was over him and at his neck, licking and biting and sucking and _ohh_, it was-- it was-- Indescribable.

_"Su-san_," he whispered breathily,_ "Su-san._" Sliding his fingers through Berwald's hair, the prince whimpered, arching his neck so that every inch could receive the true beast's administrations.

The heat coursing through him was his own and he moved hotly against Berwald, desiring so many more of his touches. Berwald read him like a book and ran his warm, rough hands gently down Tino's yearning body. The prince wiggled restlessly as those hands roamed his chest, his sides, his waist. Tino breathlessly chanted his name like a mantra and touched Berwald's cheek, tilting it up to meet his violet eyes and coldly smiling face.

_"Let us become one, da?"_

Tino cried out, sitting bolt upright in the inn's bed, his face damp with perspiration, heart thudding painfully in his chest.

His nap had lasted until noon. The young prince rubbed his arms of the goosebumps that liked to reside there whenever he thought of the Russian duke. Tino's face twisted up in a scowl. It had been a perfectly nice dream until Ivan had so rudely interrupted it. His facial muscles relaxed and he brought a hand to his lips, cheeks coloring as he remembered just how _nice_ it was.

After spending a few moments of composing himself, Tino pulled on his own (or rather, Berwald's old tailored) clean clothes and left the room, trotting down the stairs and into the small lobby. Elizaveta noticed him right away and smiled, waving him over to the front desk.

"Everyone is predicting a rainstorm later on," she informed him, "so Mr. Oxenstierna decided to stay another night."

Tino nodded, unconsciously fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "Um... where is Su-san?"

She offered a tiny apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I don't know, dear. He left a few hours ago after you and I chatted."

"He's down at the doctor's," came Roderich's silk-smooth tenor as he walked into the lobby through a door behind Elizaveta, not looking up from the parchment in his hands. Elizaveta made a pleased noise in the back of her throat.

"Oh, good. That means they're finally going to get that old roof patched."

"He was only going to fix the shingles on the woodshed," Roderich replied, coming to stand beside his wife.

"Yes, but you know that if anyone even mentions the _age_ of the bad tiles, he'll take it upon himself to redo the entire thing." She glanced at Tino and rolled her expressive green eyes. "Honestly, you'd think a town brimming with professional laborers wouldn't wait half a year for someone else to get things done."

The Austrian gave a dainty snort and his wife nodded as though he had uttered something profound. "Really," she said, leaning toward Tino conspiratorially, "everyone just wants to keep him around for as long as possible."

Tino blinked. "Oh?"

"Mm; he's a national hero, after all. The village adores him. Not only that, but the dear actually thinks that he owes a debt to that small hospital down the road." She shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Of course it's the other way around, but twice a year without fail, that old cart rolls into town and the hospital gets a shed full of free firewood."

The prince didn't even notice that he, too, was leaning closer, curiosity swimming in his lilac depths.

"Why does he think he's indebted to them?"

"Well," she answered solemnly, "it's practically legend. One night, a few years before Roderich and I moved to town, a truce was called from the enemy lines, and the war had officially ended. A treaty had been written by the government higher-ups and a permanent ceasefire had been called. But not everyone was happy that the war had ended. An isolated Swedish troupe was ambushed and slaughtered, found just a few acres into the forest west of town. Nobody could say for certain, but it's rumored that the Lion was the brawl's only survivor… but only just barely. It was during the darkest hours of the night that he made his way into town. Luckily, a couple of nurses were working late and when he collapsed at the hospital doorway, they rushed him inside. A doctor was fetched and by some miracle the wound," Elizaveta ran a finger from her chest to her left thigh, expression stoic, "did not kill him, and by a fortnight's passing, he was up and about the town. He even started looking to settle."

Roderich shuffled around her, seeming to look for something, and without even a single word between them, she pulled a thin feather pen from her pristine white apron and handed it to him. He gave a small, relieved smile and lightly kissed her cheek in thanks.

Tino missed the entire transaction, lost in thought. He had never thought about it before, but there was so much he didn't know about Berwald, and it made him feel a little… lost. Though, he reasoned in his head, he kept plenty of things from the Swede as well. Actually… Tino brought his thumb between his lips and nibbled on the nail with a furrowed brow. All Berwald really knew was his name, which he had finally requested during the end of their second week together. Of course, it was all he really _could _say without revealing his princehood; everything in his life revolved around the palace and others like him.

"But you know," Elizaveta began, breaking him from his thoughts with a conspiratorial tone, "once the townspeople caught wind of the rumors, he had to leave for his own self-preservation."

"Rumors?" he murmured in question. Roderich scoffed somewhere to the right, catching both of their attentions.

"A bunch of nonsense," he sniffed primly, leafing through a thick stack of papers. "That's all it is." But Elizaveta didn't seem to think so, giving a little huff.

"It isn't nonsense," she argued, "it's intriguing!" The Hungarian turned to the confused prince. "I told you that the Lion was born on the battlefield, yes?" she asked and Tino nodded. "Well, for three years during the war, the crowned princess of Sweden went missing. When she returned to the throne, upon recounting her adventures she revealed that she had fallen in love with a general. The scandal only reached its peak two decades ago, but it has already become history. The rumor that sprouted from facts was that she bore the general's child on the very war ground that the Lion himself was born. And of course, being the legend that he is, it makes sense that people would attach his circumstances with royal scandal." She gave Roderich a playful glare. "Not to mention that his age, as good as anyone's guess anyway, fits the timeline of the princess' disappearance like pieces in a puzzle."

"But since the incident," Roderich interjected, "her highness was crowned, married, and produced three heirs to her husband. No word has been uttered for over twenty years on the subject from the royal family, so it is a pointless topic, fruitless beyond the realms of speculation and coincidence."

Elizaveta poked out her tongue at him for disturbing her romanticism.

That must have been why it was news to Tino; if it hadn't been circulating in the royal court for two decades, well… he was only eighteen himself. Perhaps the Swedish court had cut off the rumor before it had ever reached Finland. But then, why were civilians still gossiping about it so many years later? Was Berwald really such a hot topic?

"As I was saying," Elizaveta continued, "when the townsfolk discovered that he was Oxenstierna, _bearing the surname of the princess' general no less_--"

"Only because General Oxenstierna was the one to adopt him to mold the boy into the perfect weapon," Roderich said exasperatedly.

"Darling," she pouted, "you're no fun…"

A distant resonating rumble stilled her lips and she leaned forward. "You'd better go fetch him, dear; to make a long story short, the Lion is a very sought-after beast, and no small number of young maidens will take the storm as an excuse to be _hospitable_ to a handsome and mysterious soldier."

Tino left the inn in a hurry, deciding this hostess read way too many romance novels.

* * *

He found Berwald on the roof of the doctor's woodshed, tools in his hands that the prince had never before seen, moving comfortably as if they were a part of his original anatomy, like his hands or his eyes. The way he always moved with his ax. Tino watched him work for a moment dazedly before remembering his purpose and stepping forward.

"Su-san," he called. Berwald stopped his actions immediately and looked down at him. "It's going to rain soon," Tino said, and Berwald turned surprised eyes to the sky. The prince gave a little laugh at that, his smile fond. "Let's go back together."

Berwald nodded. "'m almos' finished," he announced, pushing himself to his feet and stretching his stiff upper body. The prince nodded in understanding.

"Then I'll wait for you."

Lightning crackled in the sky and was followed by a bellowing thunder that, as he scuttled into the wood shed, was ultimately giving him second thoughts.

* * *

I can't tell you how much I love writing Austria. Just a lot.  
And yeah, spellcheck, I know "breathily" isn't a word. But it should be.


	10. discretion and its perks

I'm upping the rating this chapter. Not taking any chances, says the risk-taker in me. Also: Denmark and Norway make their debuts.

* * *

The prince of Norway sighed. The exhalation was a grand mix of pity, exhaustion and overall irritation. The overbearing blond head in his lap was only making it worse. Eirik looked out the northern window in hopes that the red-orange sunset sky would help soothe his nerves, considering calmly the very comfortable down bed he sat upon, the clear sky, a green forest beyond-

"We still can't find him," came the muffled, woe-stricken announcement of a king. Arms clad in thick red garb held snugly around the prince's waist. Under normal circumstances he would have ignored the King's moans or punished him physically for invading his boundaries. However, since the disappearance of Prince Tino, the Dane had been sincerely out of character. For a month Rodolf had moped around Eirik's palace in Norway (he'd come just to sulk on the Norwegian's turf, the smaller monarch decided tersely), and after the first fortnight he'd begun to genuinely concern the prince for his drained demeanor. During the third week, Eirik himself grudgingly initiated a conversation with the blank Dane, which escalated to physical contact - the kind that probably wasn't wise to remember while Rodolf's head was in his lap - and now the presumptuous King thought that he had a free pass into Eirik's personal space.

He sighed again. "Perhaps he tired of you and ran away. Maybe he doesn't want to be found."

King Rodolf looked up, his chin pressed against Eirik's abdomen, eyes reflecting the prince's elegant tunic, shining the very deepest blue in such a pitiful way that he almost regretted the icy comment. It made even Eirik's chilly heart pause, the uncertain depth of that blue.

"Would you leave me, too?" he asked, looking for all the world like a lost child. "Is that why you think that?"

And the prince wordlessly took Rodolf's face between his hands, silently considering the king that knelt before him, searching so desperately for an answer. Eirik heaved his third sigh and patted the other's cheeks with an intensity that was just short of a slap.

"You give me headaches when you're noisy," he began after a long moment in a voice that was quiet and crisp, "and you're _always _noisy. You're too tall and your brain is made of butter. You spend too frivolously when it comes to alcohol and you speak before you think. You're hopeless." As the prideful King of Denmark began to physically deflate upon processing the brutal attack, Eirik threaded his fingers through Rodolf's honeyed locks and leaned over just enough to touch his brow to the King's forehead. "How could I leave such a hopeless king?"

The following 'What would become of your kingdom without my assistance?' was regrettably smothered by a pair of crushing, fervid lips and a sturdy body toppling his over onto the downy bedcovers.

* * *

For the next few moments Tino leaned against the sturdy doorway, watching women hustle their children inside and their husbands closing up shop after them on the street beyond. Above him he heard the muffled thuds and chinks of Berwald's persistence and the occasional rolling thunder. The entire village grew quiet, dyed a pale blue under the clouded midday sky, and it comforted Tino. It was peaceful.

When his relaxed mind finally processed the fact that tiny little dark circles had begun appearing on the gray cobblestone, a large, heavy shape dropped directly in front of him. The prince cried out in alarm, placing a hand over his startled heart and laughing.

"You scared me, Su-san!" he exclaimed. A thick drop of rain splattered against one of the Swede's lenses and he stepped inside the shed.

"S'rry," Berwald answered, taking the spectacles off to wipe them dry. They became streaked from the work grime on his tunic, so Tino took them delicately and fogged the glass with his breath, cleaning them himself.

"Su-san…" he began, looking into the Swede's squinty eyes inquisitively, sliding the glasses back on his nose. "Why aren't you married?"

Judging by Berwald's blank reaction, he guessed that the question itself was too unspecific (never once considering it to be as out of the blue as a question could be) and set about to explaining.

"It's just that Elizaveta said you're popular with the girls, and since you're already settled down, it just… makes me curious…"

Berwald's following silence was so long and painful that Tino wringed his hands, watching the other's stormy expression with a rapidly increasing anxiety. "W-was I too forward? Forgive me. I didn't mean to…" He trailed off, grimacing. His own awkwardness filled the shed with the rain's pressure until it was fit to bursting like a balloon. The moment he felt he couldn't stand it a second longer, Berwald cleared his throat.

"'s fine. Jus' caught m' off guard." The bearish man laid his hand on Tino's head; the prince nearly breathed a sigh of relief when Berwald's expression cleared. "'m not int'rested in m'rriage."

Tino thought on this momentarily before his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"But… you called me your wife…"

Berwald shrugged and leaned against the sturdy wooden doorway, looking out toward the rainy street. "Wouldn't mind 'f it w's you."

The cool breeze felt good on his hot face and he rubbed the goosebumps on his arms, contemplating what such a bizarre statement could possibly imply.

* * *

The night was spent tossing and turning for poor Prince Tino. The restlessness was born from the long nap he'd taken earlier, the very nice dream he'd had during that nap, and his mind refusing to let him forget said dream. In fact, it seemed perfectly content to relive the dream in vivid detail, despite the fact that the Lion himself was sleeping soundly not two feet away.

Tino rolled onto his stomach and muffled his moan deep into the pillow, lifting his hips just enough for his hand to crawl underneath his abdomen. Tino's breath hitched when his own smooth fingertips slid beneath the cotton waistband of borrowed sleep trousers, the muscles in his belly quivering. He hesitated, clenching the linen pillow cover between his teeth.

But then his fabricated beast was pushing him further into the porridge bowl, that big hand ever present, and Tino was filled with a new courage. He pushed his hand further under, touching his stiffening appendage and whimpering. "S-Su-san!" he whispered, body twitching. The prince involuntarily lowered his hips to meet his hand, moving silently against the bedcovers. The dream beast in the shape of Berwald touched him, too, moving faster with Tino's increasing need. He spread his thighs further to encourage the phantasm, his hand a mere vessel for the figment's lust.

_"Su-san, ohh Su-san…"_ he chanted quietly into the pillow, rocking his hips and panting and pretending, his face a mask of concentration. Doing this before in earlier years had never made him feel so hot and dangerous, and with his eyes closed and Berwald's face behind his eyelids, those eyes staring him down, it was no wonder that he unraveled completely. With a whimper and a startling spasm shaking his entire being, he felt himself emptying into his hand. Flexing the wet, warm fingers, Tino tiredly turned his head toward Berwald, sighing with relief.

_Good. Still asleep._

He withdrew the sticky hand and wiped it on his trousers, nuzzling into the heated pillow to sleep (as for now, he had become rather tired thanks to the once-rapid heartbeat's slow decent).

Unfortunately for Berwald, Tino had been horribly wrong in his assumptions, and was now the one wide awake and painfully aroused.

* * *

"Oh, I do hope you come back soon!" Elizaveta crowed when Tino and Berwald began the checkout process with Roderich. Tino smiled politely.

"I hope to," he answered, laughing awkwardly when she pulled him to her ample bosom for a hug. She released him after a moment, glancing subtly toward Berwald and back to Tino with a sly wink.

"You're always welcome, dear."

The prince nodded and followed Berwald out the door when beckoned, looking back to wave at the cheerful Hungarian and her husband. On their walk down the street, where men were setting up shop and saying their farewells to the Lion, Tino looked up to him as well. "This was fun, Su-san," he exclaimed with a grin. "I'm glad I came."

Berwald glanced back down at him and nodded. Tino supposed that meant that he hadn't viewed the trip as completely bothersome.

During the walk back down the cobblestone way, Tino supposed he shouldn't have been surprised at the sheer number of young ladies and men that greeted Berwald, offering treats and trinkets of thanks (and admiration, probably). Tino himself carried a basket of ripe lingonberries, the rest making its way into the once-empty cart. Lifting the basket lid as they entered the outskirts of the village, Tino popped a few of the red fruits into his mouth. "You're so popular, Su-san," he noted with a grin, glancing back into the cart. "All of these cookies look so painstakingly made. They're so pretty! And the size of these rutabagas are unbelievable!"

Berwald trudged along, pulling the cart behind. "Good c'ltivat'rs," he said. Maybe Tino imagined it, but it sounded as though he may have had an air of fondness about him. The prince nodded vigorously, his laughter light.

"They're good people. You're very lucky to be so loved."

The other continued along silently, but Tino didn't miss the smattering of color alight on his cheeks.

* * *

I know, I know, this chapter was pointless aside from a little sexual progression, but I swear it'll move along next time. It would have taken too long to get where I wanted to go and I really needed to get this baby out. So to all of The Escape's reviewers (who make me weep with their kindness and fidelity and critique), I love you. Please continue to support me, and I'll continue cranking out your AU SuFin action (and hopefully there'll be more action to come, oh ho).


	11. telltale heart and other imperfections

Even though he was slightly fatigued from the long walk back, Tino's energy sparkled at the sight of a tiny white bottom wiggling at him from the storm drain.

"Hanatamago!" he exclaimed happily, leaving Berwald's side. Her head popped up and she gave a little squeaky bark, tail wiggling sporadically back and forth as she left the drain, trotting up to the prince on her tiny little legs. "Good girl," he cooed, crouching down to cradle her head, ruffling the white ears affectionately. She placed her head in his lap, sniffing his thighs. Tino turned his head to watch Berwald settle the borrowed cart on the visible side of the cottage. "Isn't she sweet, Su-san?"

The Swede's attention was caught and he lumbered over, bending at the waist, hands on his knees as he examined the puppy.

"Cute," he answered, scratching her behind the ears. Tino smiled and looked sown, about to agree.

But instead, upon realizing just how close that hand was to the pleasant area he'd fantasized it being just the night before, the words froze in his throat. As Hanatamago moved farther up his thighs toward the sticky, sweet smell of the lingonberry stain on Tino's tunic, so too did Berwald's hand on her head. Tino bit his lower lip, willing any indecent thoughts out of his mind. But Berwald's hand retracted itself not too long after, instigating a sigh of relief from the prince.

"Time f'r chores," Berwald said suddenly, straightening up. Tino gently pushed the puppy out of his lap and jumped to his feet.

"I-I'll help!" he chirped, trailing after the taller of the two. Together they aired out the cottage, hanging their bedthings and garments on the clothesline and sweeping the accumulated dust out the door.

As the sun began to dip in the west, they traipsed down the beaten path to the creek, followed by an excitable white ball of fluff. Hanatamago was content to sniff around the water's edge when they stepped into the chilly water. The stream had risen since the rainfall, and Tino had to stand on his tiptoes to reach the bottom, while the calmly flowing water splashed against Berwald's chest.

Tino ducked under for a moment to wet his hair, resurfacing and receiving Berwald's soap graciously. After scrubbing up and rinsing off, Tino began to swim to shore, shivering and jittering in the cold rush. He passed Berwald on his way and not a second after the larger had left his peripheral vision, a pale, rough hand grabbed his upper arm under the water. Tino turned to look at Berwald in surprise. And then he realized that his companion was terribly, terribly close, and only becoming more so as he tugged the Prince toward himself insistently.

"Ohyaa!" he squeaked, his face getting hot. He was so transfixed with being squished against the wonderfully broad chest that he almost didn't notice the tenseness of Berwald's aura and Hanatamago's high, alert barks. "B-Berwald, what's wrong?"

The taller blond didn't answer, his head turned toward the bank opposite of Hanatamago, giving Tino only a view of his focused profile. He trembled again, though whether it was the cold stream water or Berwald's hard expression, he couldn't be sure.

"… W're leavin'," Berwald mumbled, his eyes never leaving the opposite bank. Tino peered around him, watching a slight breeze move the tall trees and full bushes.

"I don't see anyth—O-oh!" His eyes widened marginally and Berwald held him tighter, both pairs of eyes targeting in on the same shape peeking at them from behind a tree. Tino gasped. "Show yourself!" he called out, though quite certain in his mind who the familiar shape could be. Probably was. Still, just in case, to protect his honor as a prince he remained behind the firm blockade that was Berwald. The tall man himself looked at Tino with no small amount of skepticism. Tino smiled back, watching a hand reach out and wave, as if to assure the two of relative privacy and peace. "It's all right," he promised.

A bewildered-looking gentleman with soft features and glasses perched on his nose that gave him the appearance of the genius that he was stumbled out of the woods, a mixed expression of utter bafflement and confusion and relief was written on his face. Tino smiled, waving. "Hello, Eduard!"

* * *

After scrambling back to the shore and witnessing the very comical scene involving stony-faced Berwald carrying a nervously flustered Eduard over the stream water, the prince and the Lion became the very icon of hospitality, bustling about making dinner and finishing chores in preparation for sleep. Tino served them carrot and potato stew, smiling and chatting with his old friend. Unfortunately for the boy, he felt that he still could not clue Berwald in on his monarchial status, and with a few subtle gestures and looks, he had convinced Eduard not to reveal anything… princely.

Eduard had a mission, however, and it could not be derailed by Tino's secrecy. That was just bad politics.

"Tino," he began halfway through his stew, catching the attention of both his longtime friend and the frightening, peculiar man the little prince had become attached to. "You've been absent for quite some time now. It's practically caused mass panic throughout the kingdoms."

Tino stiffened for only a second before laughing a bit nervously. "You know I don't like it when you exaggerate, Eduard. I know I've been gone for a long time. I was recovering."

Eduard raised his pale eyebrows in question.

"I'd been running from a _bear_," he subtly emphasized the word, knowing that Eduard understood the meaning by the slight tremor in his shoulders, "and got lost. I ate some… bad berries, and Su-san saved me." He smiled happily at Berwald, who was unintentionally frightening Eduard with his tense expression. (The large gentleman was pondering the terrible mental image of Tino scrambling away tearfully from a ravenous, bloodthirsty bear. How unsettling!)

"'Nyone woulda done th' same," he mumbled back, ears a little pink. Tino laughed and Eduard watched in wonderment. His friend, while always warm and friendly, had often become politely detached from all others. The sharp, analytical Estonian gent inferred that the cause of such a thing was perhaps the fault of his surroundings: The King of Denmark who had always pressured Tino, manipulating his decisions and extorting a great many resources favored an entirely different prince all the while; his maids who had to maintain a respectful distance and formality despite the fact that they had raised him from babyhood; even so basic as the normal wariness and mistrust that came with being the most prominent heir to vast lands and riches that circulated among royalty. It had taken years to form a substantial bond with the other boy, so why had this frightening, stony man gained his favor so quickly?

Aside from the whole rescuing him from a toxic death factor…

"The bear is gone, Tino," Eduard said, his tone meaningful. He regarded the prince over the thin rims of his spectacles. "He's hibernating back in his cold, dark cave."

"You're sure?" Tino swallowed. "I just don't want to be eaten, you know? I'm a little worried."

Eduard nodded subtly. "I heard about it before I left to find you," he said.

Berwald was very confused. Beard hibernated in the winter, which was… months away… Not to mention the way that they spoke was secretive in a way; like a code that only perfect insiders could crack. That in and of itself didn't exactly bother him, per se, but he could not help but feel the slightest twinge of something unpleasant in his chest at the intimacy in their eyes. They could perfectly read one another. He'd never had that with… anyone.

"Then y' shouldn't have t' worry," he said, making both of the younger lads turn their eyes his way. A little uncomfortable with the attention, he looked down at the wooden bowl in front of him. "I mean, there's nothin' t' keep you from goin' back home, right?"

Tino gave a bit of a start and an unfamiliar expression flitted through his eyes that made Berwald's heart pause in discomfort. But then it was gone, and Tino was smiling in a very unusual manner, subtly putting distance between them.

"Haha… you're right," he said, and Berwald frowned at his thick tone (making Eduard flinch). "I should be going home. I will. Tomorrow."

He waited for Berwald to… well, what was he waiting for, really? An objection? For Berwald to kneel before him, ask him to stay forever? But all the other did was nod silently, letting him go in one small, ambiguous movement.

Tino felt his eyes burn and made a quick escape outside, scurrying into the dark night and to the shed under the ruse of fetching more wood for the stove. He felt his way clumsily around the shed, his mind flooded with Berwald's easy dismissal. Sending him away. Practically pushing him out the door. What did he expect, though? He was a burden, after all; another mouth do feed, another expense that Berwald didn't need. A strangled whimper bubbled up in Tino's throat and the heat that pricked at his eyeballs spilled over.

The only person he wanted to want him didn't. He blubbered for a moment in an attempt to compose himself, and when he wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic, the snap of a twig sounded nearby. Quickly gathering an armful of slow-burning cedar and hustled to leave.

"S-Su-san?" he tried, cursing the pathetic meekness in his tone.

"It's me," came a voice a few decibels higher. Tino sighed with relief. "What's the matter, your highness?"

Eduard's soft, kind tone only made it worse, and Tino felt his eyes begin to burn again. It was much easier for his wet distress to greet his cheeks again, for cold tracks had already laid the path and he bowed his head.

"I… don't want to go," he admitted quietly, trying and failing to wipe the tears and snot off on his shoulder. "I like it here, Eduard. I've made friends and met all sorts of wonderful people, and I've worked hard and… and Berwald is…" He hiccupped, clutching the long strips of cedar to his chest, his heart already clenching at the prospect of leaving it all behind. "I've never b-been happier in my life…"

Eduard slowly navigated his way through the dark toward Tino by the sounds of his heartfelt choking sobs. He patted along the other's pitch black shoulder to the top of his head, resting it there.

"What a wonderful memory it's made for you," he said quietly. Tino shook in reply. "You seem so much livelier. Your smile is so… different. Brighter. More full. Why is that, I wonder?" Tino's sad noises began to dissipate and Eduard took this as a good sign. "How much does Mr. Oxenstierna have to do with that?"

The prince stiffened. His face slowly began to burn red hot and he was grateful to the ink black night for its cloaking ability—he would have died if Eduard could see the bright red of his cheeks.

"I… really like being here with him," he confessed quietly. Eduard blinked.

"Well," he said with a small, weary exhale, "that was only too obvious, your highness. I was hoping for something more specific."

Tino's shoulders slumped a little further.

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore," he replied, pulling away. "Tomorrow, I'll be back at the castle and everything will have gone back to normal." He turned, carefully making his way toward the house, the dim candlelit windows a beacon in the chilly night.

"But you're right," he murmured. "It _is_ a beautiful memory."

His life would never have been so bright without it.

* * *

Both Tino and Berwald had insisted that Eduard take the bed. The little prince found himself clutching a thick bundled quilt in his arms and contemplating something with no small amount of intensity. Berwald was in his usual corner, eyes closed. Eduard was breathing evenly in slumber, turned toward the wall. Tino nibbled on his lower lip. He would be leaving tomorrow, probably for forever, so he'd never have this chance again… but it was so embarrassing, and how would he word such an odd request, and… and Berwald was looking at him, gesturing for him to come closer, reading his mind. Tino scuttled up to him, cheeks a little warm.

"Yes?" he whispered hopefully. Berwald glanced at the candle on the small shelf above and Tino quickly snuffed it, crouching down before the taller man to peek at his moonlit face above the quilt. "Su-san," he whispered, and Berwald slowly spread his arms. Tino practically fell into them out of sheer excitement, trying not to appear as flustered as he was by settling himself between Berwald's folded legs and tucking the quilt around the both of them, and finally trying to relax against the other's firm body.

His own body was on fire, though, and his attempt to seem casual was stiff and he felt himself begin to tremble.

"Will th' trip be far?"

Berwald's murmur, low and soft right by his ear, sent pleasant tingles down Tino's spine, and it took a moment for his buzzing mind to register the question.

"N-not too," he replied. "I live on the Finnish border on the other side of the woods. It shouldn't take more than a day."

Berwald was quiet for a while, his fingers fiddling with the quilt on Tino's shoulder. The prince was focused completely on the touch, trying to calm his quickening heartbeat.

"Will y' maybe… come 'n' visit?"

Tino's eyes widened and he turned his head toward the other.

"I… I don't…" He swallowed. "Can I?"

"'Course y' can," Berwald replied instantly. "Told y' ye're always welcome. Meant it." A large, rough hand found the trembling hands pressed against Tino's rapid-paced heart and enclosed itself around them. "Did y' not believe me?"

Tino laughed quietly, moving his fingers so that they could wriggle between the spaces of Berwald's own.

"I will definitely visit you," he promised quietly. "I'll be back to steal your bed and your food as… as often as I possibly can."

Berwald pressed his nose into the crook of Tino's neck and chanced a brief smile. "Sounds great."

He waited long into the night after the prince fell asleep to trace his fingers along the slope of Tino's pale, soft neck, stroking the flaxen hair upon the head rested on his shoulder and, with the nervous hesitance of a blushing bride, traced the corners of Tino's parted lips with his thumb.

Any more would have been a crime, he supposed, to do to someone so… perfect.

So he relaxed, resting his chin on Tino's shoulder and shut his eyes, caging that small, lithe form in his arms 'til morning.

* * *

Ufufu, Tino's tears. They cure cancer. Finally, the plot commences. We're slowly progressing toward the climax, gaiz!  
SO YEAH. I know you're all going to come up to Anime St. Louis and party with me this weekend (4/24-26), since I'll be cosplaying as our favorite frying pan-wielding Hungarian. 8D Because you're all very wealthy and drive your own cars and can drop **everything **to mosey on down at such short notice. If you guys did that, I would... do something amazing... Like update faster. But ONLY IF YOU ALL COME; and if you're already coming, tell me, and we shall embrace and be merry!  
-Bya


	12. actions are dirty little liars

Wait! Don't shoot! It's an update, I swear! So I was showering (raunchy so early? Heck yes.) and I was thinking on _Escape _and how badly I really needed to update, and it just started coming to me, so here we are! I know I have a... a lot of online schoolwork I really really need to get caught up on, but I decided... my GPA can suck it- I missed you guys! And just so you know for future reference, I'm gonna try to keep Escape updates on my profile. If it's not there, check out my LJ (and you do have to friend me to see stuff. Inorite? I ought to be slain). So here you go, gaiz. I love you!

* * *

The palace was just as he remembered it; tall stone walls and ceilings far too high, long tapestries and paintings crafted to display the forms of Tino's elegant ancestors, winding staircases and servants bustling about on all sides to tend to the expanse of grandeur, always going going going and never stopping; an organized madhouse of sorts. Strangely enough, nobody stopped to welcome him home, but he supposed that that was probably for the best; he was tired from his journey home and all he really wanted was his too-large, too-soft bed. Tino took one of the stairways up three flights and traipsed down the corridor to the royal family's sleep chambers, a hallway not so congested by the ever-busy servants.

With a deep sigh of relief, exhaustion and something he didn't want to ponder at the moment, he twisted the grooved brass knob and stepped in.

His room was dark; the curtains were closed (which was odd; Helmi always drew the curtains, even when he was away on business) and no candles were lit signaling that anyone had anticipated his return. Even so, everything was exactly how he had left it; his bed sat close to the window, the canopy curtains hanging still, and the vanity to the far left reflected darkness, and the large chair sat between the two, a shape made darker even than the room surrounding. Everything was the same, and yet something was just terribly off... he could feel it...

Tino cautiously stepped in, intent on flopping into bed and burrowing under the covers to think himself to sleep when the door slammed shut behind him with far more force than was natural. He jumped, clutching his heart, and turned around to open it again to see who had scared him so when a cold, sweet voice crooned behind him.

"Welcome home, little Prince."

The words that should have been so warm crawled over him like a dead thing and he shivered. So that's what was off; his chair was occupied. Without thinking his hands flew to the doorknob and he twisted, only to find that it was stuck. _Or locked_. Feeling very much trapped and frightened he shook the knob, attempting to turn it over and over, only stopping when a chilly chuckle bubbled forth from the duke's lips behind him. "You are not trying to escape are you, _zaichik_? The fun has not yet begun."

Something in his arms tightened and were yanked back, as if pulled by invisible strings. He cried out and thrashed, fighting to break away from Ivan's intangible grasp, anxiety racing through his heart. "No!" he cried, trying to reach forward. "No! Su-san! _Su-San_!" He knew he never should have left; there was no escape from Ivan so near his own domain. Cursing his decision, tears ran from his eyes. He was only safe with Berwald. If Berwald were here, he wouldn't let this happen. He wouldn't want something like this happen to Tino, because he cared. And even if it was only the Swede that cared for the young prince, it was more than enough. Tino grit his teeth with renewed vigor and tried again to pull away.

Because Berwald would want him to. Even if it was useless. Even though his efforts seemed to bear no fruit and the dark chuckling grew darker and he was still pulled farther and farther from his freedom.

And as though delivered by an angel of mercy, a very solid-sounding body began to throw itself at the door from the outside in a series of loud thumps and bangs. "Tino!"

Despite his rather dire-seeming circumstances, Tino smiled, his face flooded with tears, and he called back. "Su-san!" Which seemed to do it. With one last resounding crash, the door was wrenched from its hinges and fell with a terrible sound to the floor. Silhouetted against the sunlit hall stood the tall, majestic form of one very upset Swede. Relief flooded Tino and he reached out, the tight strings loosening with every step. Ivan seemed farther away now that Berwald was near. With outstretched arms he pulled himself to Berwald, and closed his eyes to fall against that warm chest.

At that moment, quite suddenly and without warning, there was a very bright ray of sunshine on his face and Tino groaned, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. He was more sore than he remembered, at his back and on his rear and he slowly blinked himself awake. The concerned face of one Estonian monarch was half obscured by Tino's fingers. "Are you all right, your majesty?"

"Fine," Tino replied quietly, rubbing his eyes to rid them of sleep. "Just a dream."

Right. He still hadn't left yet. He was still in the tiny cottage, still in Sweden, still safe. And Ivan had gone back to Russia; Eduard had promised him that it was so. "Where's Su-san?" He knew his intelligent friend wouldn't have referred to him as royalty if Berwald was around. The look on Eduard's face was one of honest befuddlement.

"Don't you remember?" he asked. When Tino's lost look didn't dissipate he sighed. "He left early this morning to deliver something out of the woods. He told us about it last night. Remember?"

Something inside of Tino constricted painfully when he realized that Berwald wasn't going to see him off. Eduard was going on about how Berwald had somehow found the horse that had abandoned him the other day and had it prepared to go hours ago along with provisions for the journey, how marvelous it was that a man could be so quick and efficient, but Tino understood only that Berwald would not be with him to say goodbye. He stood, bringing Eduard's astonished speech to a halt and slowly began to fold the quilt.

Since there was nothing to pack and only a few easy chores left undone, Tino was ready to go in one short hour. He stood beside Eduard while the other made sure the horse was securely saddled, and Tino just gazed at the cottage he had so quickly begun to call home. A breeze passed by, blowing Tino's bangs into his eyes. When he brushed them aside, a small white head popped around the side of the house. Hanatamago yipped and Tino's eyes softened. He crouched down and held out his hand, and the tiny dog trotted over, bouncing immediately into his arms. He brought her close and nuzzled her warm belly, and in return she rubbed her wet nose against his cheek. He laughed quietly and pulled back, pressing a kiss to her short muzzle. "You'll take care of him for me, won't you?"

She licked his nose, which he took as a definite _yes _and satisfied, he let her back down on the ground. "I'll miss you," he told her, scratching fondly behind her ears, "my cute little Bloody Hanatamago."

Eduard looked down and his eyes widened. He sneezed, making a noise. "Majesty, I'm allerg- ACHOO!"

Taking poor Eduard's sensitivity into consideration, Tino patted Hanatamago one last time and stood, watching her watch him from the ground. She sat on her little haunches and looked up, almost expectantly. He shook his head. The tightness in his throat that had remained all morning was not soothed, and if anything only grew worse at the sight of the little dog and her tiny little tail wiggling back and forth.

"Tino?" Eduard asked once he had composed himself. The prince looked up again. The cottage was very small, built well and repaired whenever necessary. The storage shed was visible only the tiniest to the right, obscured by most of the house. Turning his head he saw the sturdy stump where Berwald made his living almost every morning, rain or shine. And there just beyond was the thin, worn path that led to the chilly stream where Berwald had and would scrub himself clean nearly all the days of his life. Every tree he could see, every tiny rock, every blade of grass, as insignificant as they were, would always have something he didn't; a closeness to someone so strong and pure.

Swallowing down whatever the suffocating sadness was, Tino turned back to Eduard and faked a smile. "I'm ready to go home."

Which was just silly, really. Anyone with eyes could see that home was the place he was leaving.

* * *

The trip home was fairly uneventful. Despite how he may have looked, Eduard actually had a very good sense of direction and by nightfall Tino began to recognize the landmarks surrounding, and as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, casting a deep blue blanket over the earth, in the far off northeast he could see the familiar dots of distant light that he knew was the small village visible by his room in the palace.

"We're very close," Eduard said. It was an unnecessary comment, but Tino knew that it was to keep the both of them awake and alert. They were both a little sore from riding all day physically, and Tino also carried the burden of mental and emotional exhaustion. He had not been able to stop himself thinking of what he'd left behind. He knew Berwald wouldn't likely have stayed in the village that he'd likely visited that morning, and that meant he would probably be at home. The tall man lived by "early to bed, early to rise" and by this time he was likely putting away the dinner dishes and getting ready for bed.

Of course when he entered the castle, despite how quiet they had tried to be, a fuss was instantly kicked up over Tino's return. He smiled thinly as the maids bustled around him, clucking like mother hens and tearing up. After a few long moments of this he held up his hands. "Thank you, ladies, very much, but I'm not hungry, and tomorrow I know will be a very long day with the King. I really should get some sleep." After promising to tell them of his "travels and adventures, and was he sure he wouldn't have something to eat?" he made a hasty retreat to his room.

Outside the door he paused. Setting his jaw and steeling himself, he slowly opened the door.

Inside the room shadows danced in the light of at least a dozen candles. Deflating, Tino pressed a hand over his heart that had honestly assumed the worst and went around, blowing out the candles one by one until he reached the tiny flicker of flame beside his bed.

It would be his first night without someone near in months, and the room was just so dark and large and empty at night, easily twice as big as Berwald's entire home. Tino opted to leave the candle lit as he burrowed under the thick covers, and finally while clutching a down pillow to his chest he let the hopeless feeling leak from his eyes, more alone now than ever before.

* * *

It burned like it always did when he felt unrest, so with a grunt on discomfort Berwald applied the ointment to his scar. It began to cool almost immediately. However, he could not say the same for the turmoil in his head. That morning, he had thought that it would be much easier to let Tino go if he didn't have to see him disappear into the distance so, like a coward, Berwald left first, the last memory of the other imprinted in his mind one of angelic rest while he slept. He thought it would make it easy for the both of them. Berwald hoped that it was easier for Tino than it had been for him.

Crawling back into bed, he could not help but ponder the oddity of it. Which was funny, in retrospect; he felt almost unused to climbing into his own bed. It had just been so long, he had gotten used to the floor. It was hard to just lay there and be restful because the pillow smelled of Tino. Tino's soft scent clung desperately to the goose-feather pillow and it was almost as though if Berwald just closed his eyes and reached out, he would receive an armful of young, lively, bright-as-the-sun Finn and that he wouldn't just tore his insides to shreds.

It was a step beyond pathetic, he knew, but Berwald couldn't help himself; he called Hanatamago over and pulled her up beside him in the bed, taking at least a small amount of comfort in her soft warmth. She seemed to understand and kindly snuggled up against him on the pillow beside his head, resting her muzzle into his hair with a soft, moist exhale through her nose. Berwald closed his eyes and forced himself to be content with that, lest he stay awake far too long pondering what could not be reversed.

His scar had gone numb.


	13. dream a little dream thereof

I can't tell you how many times I looked down at my scribble paper as I typed the story up, looked up to scan the typed shiznit for any mistakes, and found that I had written the word king as "kink." It's embarrassing and very, very sad.

* * *

It didn't take more than a week for the King to arrive on horseback. His long entourage trailed at least three days behind, all the carriages and luggage far more cumbersome to the horses than the single body of a man, but of course the young prince of Norway accompanied him. He rode at his side with an air of cool indifference. Even though his facial features were impassive, his eyes spoke plenty of his relief at Tino's undamaged appearance. As the King had always displayed particular favoritism towards them and their lands (taking frequent holidays and getaways to Finland and Norway, resulting in a rarity of his homecoming) Eirik and Tino had more or less grown up together, almost like the King's pets... or siblings. It was an odd international family dynamic, but its strangeness made it no less real.

The Prince of Norway stood back and allowed Rodolf to take Tino by the shoulders and demand a story, a good excuse, and was he really not hurt, and how could he worry everyone like that. Tino smiled gently and apologized like he always did and gave the King the same carefully sculpted story he had fed his maids and court counselors.

He had taken a leisurely stroll through the forest, as people were apt to do, and decided at one point to take a short nap. In his carelessness he had slept until dark and had found himself hopelessly lost. He wandered aimlessly until morning when he came upon a small nameless village (_no, your Highness, he could not identify it on a map, not even if he tried_). The local innkeeper had taken pity and kept him fed and sheltered, asking only for labor in return. The plan had been to wait for a passing traveler that could accompany him back home, but as the many long weeks passed, Tino had begun to lose hope. And then Eduard happened through the village in search of him, which had brought him to his present state in the palace.

It was a tale that had been thoroughly rehearsed with Eduard, who had sworn to stand by it (even to the young Lithuanian patriarch that the Estonian respected so much). Aside from being a little put-out at having no one to search for and behead, Rodolf accepted the story without any skepticism outside of a slightly whiny "Are you sure nothing more... exciting happened?"

Ever the perceptive one, Eirik was not so easily deceived. He had always been proficient at reading the atmosphere and trusting his fellow prince in his actions, but after the third day of their intrusion and observing Tino's finicky appetite, when it was existent at all, and the dark circles under the small prince's eyes, worry began to gnaw at Eirik's insides until the end of the third day when he cornered Tino in his own room.

"What really happened?"

The blush of evening cast a warm glow on the sparse furnishings in Tino's room, the shadows deep and dark. The prince himself sat on the wide windowsill, turning sharply to look at his fellow monarch. "E-eh? What do you mean, Eirik?"

"Don't insult me by playing the fool," came his immediate reply, Eirik's face void of empathy. He leaned against the closed oaken door, folding his arms across his chest. Though his voice was always quiet and calm, it was firm. "I'm not so easy to fool like a Dane."

Tino watched him for a long moment, silent, pensive. He turned back to look out the window and just barely, Eirik caught the small smile that lighted upon his face. "But I _did _get lost in the forest," he said quietly. "And I _did _come across a quaint little town. I met so many wonderful people and experienced life like... like I'd never known it before." He turned to give Eirik a slightly sheepish look. "So I didn't exactly lie..."

The Norwegian prince nodded and made himself comfortable on Tino's bed, crossing one leg and resting the foot on his thigh. "So then tell me what you omitted from your story."

Tino turned his eyes back toward the setting sun and his lips slowly began to weave the tale of the great lion of Sweden.

* * *

The days were long and the nights longer, for at least during the day he had time to busy himself with various princely duties. At night he was all alone with his thoughts and memories and his longing, unhindered by anything with which he could distract himself. Tino often asked himself why he so longed to return to the weeks he spent in the little cottage in Sweden. Was it, he wondered, because in that home away from home where he spent his days in the sun and under the leaves were so peaceful? Or was it that in the little moments that seemed so mundane from a distance, like stirring stew in the pot or sweeping the front steps, made him feel such a sense of belonging that his happiness made him feel as though he were bursting at the seams? Or was it something completely different?

He would clutch his pillow to his chest then at thoughts like those and his feet would tangle themselves restlessly in his sheets. It confused him, his thoughts of Berwald. Tino wasn't sure he could handle such a complex array of emotions. There was the gnawing ache at losing something he didn't know could become so dear; the slight shiver he felt jolt down his spine at the mere memory of Berwald's frightening expressions; the unidentifiable _something _that just pierced every nerve ending in his body, making him fizzle inside and grow warm wherever the Swede's touches landed; the intensity of the waves that crashed through him when he thought of those broad shoulders and smooth stomach, those large hands touching him and holding him down and if this thought process continued Tino would have to procure a fine tale for the maids indeed to change his poor sheets.

Every little thing reminded him of Berwald, from the mumbles of his one Swedish counselor to the logs that crackled and burned in his fireplace. It was eating him up slowly, gradually, and if Eirik had noticed, it wouldn't take long for Rodolf to see something was wrong, and then there would be no stone unturned all throughout Sweden until the over-dramatizing Dane found what he wanted. An axe, a king, and poor unsuspecting Berwald were three things Tino never wanted to think about in the same instance.

Berwald had completely encompassed his thoughts, and each reminder sent a fresh jolt of… something through his chest. The pillow in his arms was squashed against his front, conveyor of his longing.

And that. That was it. He wanted to see Berwald. He needed to see him. He needed to fall asleep with a broad form within arm's reach; he needed the lullaby of low, steady breath to ease him into rest. He needed to know that he would wake to the hypnotic metronome of an axe on wood.

He didn't know how he had ever lived without it before, and he certainly didn't know how to bear with it now.

Tino fell into another restless sleep, his heart a low, dull drum between his ribs.

* * *

Berwald was there with him, and he knew it must be a dream. He was directly across from Tino in the bed, lying on his side so that they were face to face. Somehow, though the room was dark but for the moon in the window and the dying embers in the fireplace, the dream allowed him to see Berwald's eyes in the way that dreams do. They pierced him so fiercely that tremors shot up and down his spine all at once. Berwald did not move, did not speak, only watched him. Tino waited. He waited, watching Berwald watch hum until a ray of sunshine seeped through his eyelids and woke him to an empty bed and another day without the Lion.

* * *

A week passed, then a month, and finally, the fuss since Tino's reappearance had died down to almost nothing. The king was in the middle of his week-long preparations for departure. Eirik was bedridden for an incredible ache in his lower back that, judging by the other prince's expression, Tino did not want to go into the reasons behind.

When he sought the Norwegian's advice, though, Eirik regarded him from amongst a vast expanse of feather pillows, his face as impassive as it would have been even if he were not bedridden from the sharp pain caused by what only the Danish could know.

His look was so knowing that Tino nearly flinched.

"The dream again?"

Slowly removing himself from the doorway and crossing the bearskin rug on the stone floor, Tino nodded, settling on his knees at the side of the bed nearest Eirik. He rested his chin on his knuckles and met the other prince's eyes, looking but not seeing, a glazed expression crossing his features.

"The moon has made her rounds," he murmured into thin air, "and it has been the only thing I've dreamed."

Eirik could easily tell by the deep, dark crescents beneath Tino's eyes that this was no farce. They crinkled at the edges, and Tino's lips twisted into a pathetically ill-concealed grimace. His voice was thick. "I wish he say something, at the very least." Choked laughter burst in the back of his throat like stones. "Not that he was ever talkative in the first place. But he just… just watches me. I can't stand it. I just wish…" He stopped himself, resting his forehead on the back of his hands and hiding his shameful expression from the other. Eirik reached out, planting his fingertips atop Tino's knuckles.

"You don't wish that they would stop."

Tino shook his head.

"Because that would mean that any connection you have conjured up for yourself would be gone."

A pair of thin shoulders trembled.

"His stillness is killing you."

Eirik moved closer, garnering Tino's attention. On his elbows, the Norwegian prince leaned forward, staring straight through his Finnish counterpart, and spoke the words with such conviction that Tino shuddered.

"Perhaps, though, he is simply waiting for _you_ to come to _him_."

* * *

For what felt like the thousandth time, Tino stared across the bed at Berwald, witness to his attentions, barely breathing for lack of movement.

He was quiet. He was still.

This time, it would be different.

The Berwald of his dreams softened, almost seeming to melt from relief when Tino reached out. He captured the prince's hand and brought it to his lips.

"Been waitin' f'r you t' come t' me." His eyes seemed to brighten in the dark, the soul-wrenching windows mirroring Tino's own heartache. "Miss y' terr'bly. Wish I'd never let y' go."

And Tino awoke with a sob to a deep blue night, his heart thundering dangerously, and all he could do curl into his pillow and empty the solitude from his hollowed chest through his eyelids.

The following morning found an enraged Dane and several frantic courtesans, solely dedicated to appeasing the unappeasable, and one less prince in the castle.

Eirik had disappeared.

* * *

Freaking a, Norway, why'd you have to take the spotlight?  
Now. I'm sure that all of you totally check _Escape_'s little mini-journal on my profile religiously, so OF COURSE you all know why it took so long for me to update. But just in case you haven't checked in the past few weeks, there are links all up and down the handy dandy profile page for a certain extraordinary fanbook in its little details.  
You should click it. Because if we can't sell a minimum of 200, we can't publish, and if we can't publish, guess whose SuFin Christmas ficlets will go to waste? That's right. Tamer Lorika's. So I suggest you all hop aboard the train and make with the happy.  
(If we make the quota, the next Escape chapter will be 6,000-plus words. Bribe enough for you?)  
-Bya  
P.S. I've got a Franada and a couple SuFins in the thing, too. But that isn't nearly as cool.


	14. feel your hatred in waves

WAIT. STOP. DON'T CLICK AWAY IN IRATE FURY.

You're still here?

Excellent.

Hi. So here's what I'm thinking. I know we all agree that I need to get myself in gear and update. We agree that I am also a lazy bum and have an act to get together. My problem is inspiration. You know what inspires me? All of you. You know what else? Music. So I thought to myself, "Self, why not put your two greatest inspirations together?" And I answered, "Well, self, you can't expect All Of You to just inspire you willy nilly." And I answered, "Y u so pessimistic, self?" In conclusion, I propose a project that you, my dearly beloveds, can be a part of.

SCHEME?

No.

I just want your music.

Here's exactly what I'm asking for: Escape, The Musical.

No. That's a lie. What I'm really asking for is that if there is a song or twelve you think particularly suits _The Escape_, send them to me via whatever you want. My end goal is this fabulous at-least-five-song-in-case-you-haven't-all-given-up-on-me-completely-derp playlist that will ultimately inspire this horrendous postless atrocity to end. (Depending on the participation it may become a contest and an actual FST hmmmm? Well. Maybe not. An it can dream. It's a glorious plot in my head, you know.)

Herpaderp.

So that's about it. Send me your songs if you believe them to be befitting of _Escape_ and I'll make this awesome master playlist that I'll share once the next chapter is done. All of Bya's links are on the profile, and since ff.n isn't exactly link friendly, I'd suggest you send a suggestion to me... y'know... elsewhere.

In conclusion, you don't need to review this and tell me I'm a terrible person (because once the next chappy-chap's up, I'm taking this crap down). Or maybe you do. I can take it.

(That was a lie. I can't. I'm wussier than a sackful of coward pudding.)

Thank you all for your time if you read this! If you didn't... well, then you don't know that I'm calling you a smelly strawberry behind your back. So there.

-Bya

PS: I would have posted this on my profile, and in fact, I had planned to, but I srsly doubt that this would have received the attention I was hoping for if I did, so here we are. I really hate when authors do this, so I'm willing to accept your unadulterated hippie rage. I love you gaiz. Truleh.


End file.
